


Surviving

by stereokem



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Luna is weird and wonderful, Nargles, PTSD, Post-War, Rape, Severus is a BAMF, Slow Build, Snuna - Freeform, St. Mungo's hospital, The Giant Squid - Freeform, Trauma, Violence, Wrackspurts, as usual, dead mind, highly technical magical scientific mumbo jumbo, just a lot of people getting hurt and ending up in the infirmary, mental magic, non HD compliant, pearl - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 71,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or "Touched". Severus never expected to live through the war. But he is alive, no thanks to a certain crazy blonde girl who just won't leave him alone. Rated M for safety.</p><p>(the rape/non-con and underage tags are NOT in reference to the Severus/Luna relationship. just to be clear)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Black Knight

**A/N: This story is Post DH, but I take a few liberties with things. For the flow of the story, in this world the Battle of Hogwarts in which the Dark Load fell occurred around the end of December. Obviously, as Severus survives, this is AU. Xenophilius Lovegood is dead. This focuses on the relationship/friendship between Severus Snape and Luna Lovegood as it might have happened, under certain extraordinary circumstances that are only possible when you throw Looney Lovegood into the mix. Happy reading.**

* * *

" **Surviving"**

**(or "Touched")**

**Part I: the Black Knight**

A dour-faced Severus Snape laggardly trudged up the sweeping grand staircase of Hogwarts, trying to tune out the dull roaring filling the atmosphere around him. His footfalls were uneven, staggering, and unsteady, made even more so by the need to sidestep the pieces of rubble and bodies that littered the stairs like confetti. The bodies, sprawled and numerous as they were, proved somewhat more difficult to dodge than the mason debris, and he found himself stumbling over several sets of legs as well as trodding on a few fingers. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he recognized that these people- these _corpses_ \- he was stepping on had been his students, his comrades in arms, and his dubious colleagues. Children, young adults, men, women . . . all reduced to similar lifeless masses in the rubble.

_Death. Death underneath my feet. Death on all sides, because death_ _**takes** _ _no sides. The greatest equalizer, unmerciful and fair._

Such thoughts had always been something of a comfort before; cold, but a comfort nonetheless, something to soften the edges of reality, of the devastation that clung to his life like feathers to tar.

Now he felt nothing.

He was sure that if someone were to take a mallet to his chest, they'd hear nothing but the clank of metal on metal.

At long last, he set foot at the top of the stairs, and immediately took a sharp right. He had, in actuality, no clue where he was going: he simply let his feet take him where they were wont to, away from the crowd, and the crying, and the clamor, and the people hanging onto Potter's every word as the bloody brat betrayed the confidence Dumbledore had lent him all those years ago- and, _Merlin_ , the school was half-destroyed and word of mouth _still_ managed to spread like a particularly vicious and contagious case of dragon pox.

Let his aching legs and his bruised feet lead the way. His mind was elsewhere. Caught. Suspended somewhere between what should have been a fatal bite and the sacrilege of his failed martyrdom.

He didn't know why he was here.

He had been twisting, winding through hallways, hurtling up moving staircases (some of which were lacking in a step or three), not knowing where he was headed, conscious of nothing but the low, incessant buzz that had begun quietly and was rapidly increasing in volume, a headache pounding with every fresh pump of blood to his brain, roaring in his ears. He had been running-limping-jogging-lunging forward blindly, reaching out with both hands like a blind man-

And suddenly, he had latched ahold of a doorhandle and threw himself into this room.

He stood there, cold-sweat stricken back pressed up against the door, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring as wave after wave of vertigo washed over him. his eyes rolled back into his head and for a few moments he thought he might pass out. It was tempting, the blackness tugging and pulling, like a cod with a hook in its lip, reeling him in with the soft, breathy threat of neverending night. . . .

Until the looming presence of a cluster of large objects to his right caught his eye.

It was then that all his dizziness, his weariness, his ache dissipated.

As he unsteadily approached the monolithic army of gargantuan chess pieces, he felt nothing but sense of dumbfounded awe.

And that was how Luna Lovegood found him.

He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, staring into the featureless face of a black pawn, gaze focused on the indent beneath the brow, the implied eyes seated there. He dimly felt the "eyes" of all the other pieces on him, a lone man in the middle of the battlefield: the white set behind him, scorching his back, the black pieces before him looking down, judging with their uncarved mouths and eyeless sockets.

There he was again. A single man caught in the crossfire, looking himself in the eye.

Without thinking, he raised his right hand, bring it up and letting the tips of his fingers rest in the pawn's eye sockets. The dark stone- marble, perhaps, or basalt- was chilly and smooth under the pads of his fingers.

It was all he had ever been. A pawn. A disposable piece.

_Such a bloody cliché._

"This one looks like you."

There was a definite and sickening _crack_ to be heard coming from his neck as he whipped his head around.

Bright, sky-blue irises slid from where they had been focused on the piece directly in front of them, tossing a twinkling glance his way out of the corner of impossibly large eyes. It was a lingering glance, and blue locked with black for a few long seconds before the former returned to their original source of interest.

Severus stared, trying to still the beating of his heart, which was thundering so hard he felt his chest might be shaking. He looked the intruder- student- up and down, his confusion-addled brain trying to draw up more than a blank.

He recognized her, this girl- surprising, considering that most of the student body had begun to blend together for him, this past year transforming them into a singular, expressionless face. But this girl, this oddling child dressed in her light-violet pants and indigo shirt with its ridiculous fabric flowers; he recognized her wide, robin's egg eyes, her long, fly-away blonde locks, the way she swayed slightly where she stood several feet to his right, as if rocked by a breeze. Recognized that voice, calm and serene, even when he had been forced to bark questions at her during her stay at Malfoy Manor-

"Lovegood," he rasped.

She turned from the black knight piece in from of her to him again, studying him fully this time. She smiled at him, a secret smile like the curve of a waning moon. It reached out with silver light, touched his mind. He was vaguely away of the floor beneath him turning dark as pitch.

"Hello, Professor."

He opened his mouth to reply—

But he choked on his words, black rushing at him from all sides. As his knees buckled and gave way under the astounding gravity of exhaustion, he marveled, just before darkness took him, how he had never fallen unconscious to a happier voice.

 

//

 

He was drifting.

His body felt huge, a deadweight. Dead. Everything ached. And though the pain was evidently his, nothing else seemed to belong to him, for he could move neither limb nor digit. And helpless though he was, it was also strangely unconcerning to him. Immovable as his loathsome body was, he felt as if he were floating, hovering in thick, soft air, trapped physically by gentle paralysis, trapped mentally behind his heavy eyelids. It was all darkness and tender weightfulness, and heavy comfort. He could have easily drifted back into complete unconsciousness. . . .

Save for the fact that _someone_ was _staring_ at him.

He couldn't explain how he knew that. It was niggling feeling, tickling at his mind. He could feel the person watch him, their eyes monitoring the rise and fall of his chest as air eased in and out of him. the flickering of his eyelids as he tried to remain in the pitch.

And, jesus fuck, it was annoying.

Feeling as though he was prying apart his eyelids with tiny metal claws, he slowly opened his eyes.

Instantly, he hissed, squinting, face screwing up. It was too bright—painfully bright. So bright he found himself gasping at the sting.

Beside him, a soft voice murmur:

" _Deminuo."_

It was like night had fallen—half night. The searing brightness of his surroundings dulled, dying down from a blinding whiteness to a warm, yellow-gold glow. Still, his eyes wanted to clamp back shut.

Kicking himself, calling upon every reserve of willpower within his foggy mind, he forced them open.

Opening his eyes seemed to awaken his other senses as well. Whilst he sat blinking, trying to clear his blurry vision, he inhaled deeply, immediately placing the starched and septic smell of the infirmary. The sound of tense voices floated to him over the stolid air; he strained to make out their words, but they were muffled by a layer of stone – which meant that whoever put him here had remembered his dignity enough to give him the only private ward, a room unto itself instead of just drawing the curtains around another sickbed. Finding that his extremities were again mobile, he reached out his long fingers, brushing them over the comforter on the sickbed, which he perceived to be charmed. A glance at the clock on the opposite wall told him one last detail of his present situation: it was three o'clock.

all this took him perhaps five seconds to take in.

it took him nearly half a minute to realize that seated next to him in a chair was a curious-looking blonde young woman.

When he turned his black gaze on her, the small smile that touched her mouth widened. He gaped, perturbed by her ungodly sereneness, mildly fascinated with the dimple that had appeared on her right cheek.

She returned his gaze levelly, smiling that silly, clandestine little smile of hers.

"you know, I don't think I've ever seen you look so boggled as you do now. It doesn't quite suit you."

He stared at her. He searched for a name.

"Lovely?" the sound crawled out of his throat like a wounded animal.

She beamed, folding the Prophet she had been presumably reading before her bout of unabated staring (upside down, no less, but he could still make out the headline "Dark Lord Defeated At Last") and placing it on the floor under her chair. "Why, thank you sir. I'd return the compliment, but, truth be told, you have seen better days."

"—that's not—I mean," he struggled, tongue doing a poor job of juggling words, "—Lovegood," he finally managed.

She nodded enthusiastically.

Taking his eyes off her (impossibly chipper) visage for a few seconds, he let his focus dart around the room, circling back to the clock before returning to the girl again. He narrowed his eyes, swallowing, trying to force some moisture into his dry, raspy throat.

"How long . . . been out?"

"Only five days, sir," she answered brightly, tucking a strand of flaxen hair behind one ear. Perhaps in response to the horrified look on his face, she added, "Madam Promfrey suspected you'd be out at least a fortnight, if you woke up at all."

 _ **If**_ _he woke up . . ._ and suddenly, everything came rushing back at him in a tsunami of memories that made his head quake and spin. He closed his eyes, fighting off a wave of nausea that accompanied the swirling images.

When he opened his eyes again, Lovegood was still watching him eagerly. Again, he narrowed his eyes.

Swallowing painfully, he spoke, wincing at every syllable as they pierced his throat. "How . . . did you find me?"

Her expression changed, from bright to thoughtful, yellow to baby blue. "oh. Quite by accident. At least, at first. I was wandering around, you see. Looking for friends that might still be alive . . ."

She trailed off, eyes clouding; her expression changed only slightly, shifting from dreamy to a languid kind of stoicism, as of one lost in distantly unpleasant thoughts. She blinked several times, then continued in the same airy tone:

"I didn't find anyone. Alive. I wouldn't have found you either, if not for the trail."

He looked at her, bewildered. "Trail?"

Her lower lip slid out somewhat, and she pointed both finger and candid stare at his half-naked torso.

It was only then that he looked down at the burgundy-soaked bandages covering his otherwise bare chest and arms, and realized exactly how much he had been bleeding. Unconsciously, he reached one hand up to his neck. Where there should have been cold, dry skin, his fingers met with soft, slightly damp gauze. His hand fell away.

"Oh," He said softly. _Oh? How eloquent_.

Luna nodded slowly. "I felt like Gretel." A twitch of a smile. "Actually, you're lucky, Professor—"

 _Lucky?_ He opened his mouth to retort—

"—that you weren't attacked by a Blood-Sucking Whumpscuttles."

He gaped at her. _Blood-Sucking Whump-_ _ **whats?**_

"Most older castles in Great Britain have had an infestation at some point—but I suppose if there was one here, it would've been taken care of already, given the tendency of students to grievously injure themselves. They're drawn to the smell of blood, you see."

Severus gaped at her.

Perhaps taking his gawking for worry, she made the addendum, "But, as I said, you needn't worry. If there were any here, you would have already died." She smiled at him.

If it were possible, his eyebrows would have disappeared into his hairline by now. He was trapped in a room with a stark-raving, cornsilk-haired lunatic of a waif- child. Wonderful.

"Do you think I'm bonkers, Professor?"

He continued to stare at her; it seemed that he'd lost the capacity both for rational thought and speech.

"Everyone tells me I am. Completely batty. Professor McGonagall likes to say 'touched'. Touched by what, I wonder—? "

"Lovegood," he interrupted, " _why_ are you here?"

She stopped. It seemed it was _her_ turn to stare at him as if he had tentacles growing out of his head. He felt himself be eclipse by her swirling blue-silver eyes surveying him out of the hollow of her face, her pale lips pressed together in what may or may not have been a frown.

And when she answered him, it was with a tone of surprise, as if the answer was all too obvious:—

"Because you're alive, Professor."

For some unfathomable reason, that statement, soft and bleak, mangled-feathery, made him turn his eyes downward, as if in shame. Truth be told, he did feel something inexplicably akin to guilt. He would have made an effort to feel ridiculous for this subtle reaction, if not for the fact that it would have exhausted him. Hell, he had only been awake for a few minutes and he was already nearly drained of energy.

So, unable to keep her hypnotizing gaze, he let his eyes drift downward, past her chin, the milky curve of her neck, the neck of her blue sweater; down to her knees, where they poked out like wide-eyed bushbabies from the holes in her worn blue jeans. He gazed at them, transfixed. They were red, creased with dirt, as if she'd been crawling around on all fours. As were her hands where they sat, clasped loosely in her lap, wrists and fingernails caked with grime.

And, looking back up he found that, if he squinted, he could see traces of dirt and leaves in her hair; there was a small cut on her lower lip, and a dark smudge on her left cheek, just above that elusive dimple.

She looked like she'd just come out of the rabbit hole.

Severus blinked. Suddenly, he felt very woozy.

The girl watched him cautiously.

"You can go back to sleep, if you like, Professor Snape. I know everyone will be anxious to see how you are . . ."

His stomach tightened at the thought of everyone swooping down upon him, and maybe he actually grimaced.

". . . but it's three in the morning, so they're all conked out. I won't tell anyone that you woke up."

It was odd, then, how he felt an extraordinary amount of gratefulness towards this girl—this mad flower child for whom he should have nothing but disdain, who was pestering him at his bedside at _three in the fucking morning_ , who had prevented him from dying there in the room of chess pieces, who was talking to him as if everything was coming up roses, who had mocked him by comparing him to anything but a pawn. But his gratitude knew none of this. He simply breathed a sigh of relief.

Before he knew what was happening, he had sunken back down into the bed, his eyelids pulling closed, his mind wandering away, down, _down, down, into blackness. . . ._

When he awoke six hours later at 9 a.m. he found himself alone in the private ward. He sat up and looked to his right, where Lovegood had been sitting, finding only an empty chair in her place.

She had not left completely without a trace, however. For, as he turned to the side he found, sitting inconspicuously on the hospital nightstand, a single black chess piece.

 

//

 

If he had forgotten to be an insufferable prick when he had awoken at the Witching Hour to the unabated stare of Ms. Lovegood, he certainly did not shirk his duty to be as much in the hours following.

For example: when Maggie, Poppy's young trainee, came into the private room he'd been confined to in order to check his vitals and run more diagnostics, she nearly jumped out of her skin to see him sitting up in bed, staring curiously at a magazine that had been left on the folding table near his bed ("The Quibbler" the strange rag was called—the other bit of evidence Lovegood had left of her presence). The startled shriek of Madame Pomfrey's young mediwitch-to-be nearly gave him a heart attack; to his disgust, he jumped violently at the sound, dropping the magazine onto the floor with a thick slap. Looking up, he saw the young girl gaping at him, having dropped a tray of potions, which all lay broken and sizzling violently on the ground where they were running together.

As if it was not enough to have a trainee mediwitch gawking at him with huge bug eyes and an open mouth, the sound the young girl had emitted had inadvertently attracted the attention of others. Before he knew what was happening, Madame Pomfrey herself was in the doorway; a loud gasp, and she was swooping in on him like some great white bird of prey. He was fairly certain that he grimaced visibly, but Madame Pomfrey took little heed of this particular symptom.

Whilst she hovered over him, muttering diagnostic spells and writing in her chart, he managed to shoot a glance off over her shoulder; his intent had been to warn away the bimbo trainee with a harsh glare, but it melted off of his face the instant he saw the crowd gathering in the doorway.

_Fucking hell._

To this, Poppy was oblivious. She was all in a tizzy, so excited that he almost didn't get her attention with that useless, raspy voice of his.

When she'd stopped fussing over his physical condition, marveling over his miraculous recovery of consciousness, he barked at her as best he could with his damaged larynx, and told her in a decidedly very irritated manner that if she didn't usher the onlookers out this instant, he would shut his eyes and go back into a bloody coma.

At this, she stopped long enough to look over her shoulder at the crowd. Among them, she could spot Flitwick, a Weasley, a few Hufflepuffs, and Potter—all in the infirmary visiting friends and comrades, not expecting the awakening of the war's other great hero.

"Severus," she said, turning back to him, "Severus, they're only concerned—"

"Get—them—the bloody fuck— _out."_ He seethed hoarsely, coughing a bit. The bandages at his neck jostled slightly, and a searing pain shot through him. Involuntarily, he gasped.

Fortunately, these negative effects of his attempting conversation with her caused Pomfrey to reconsider her zeal about his recovery. She conceded that he was right, that no one but Headmistress McGonagall ought to see him, furthermore instructing him not to speak unless absolutely necessary.

Thankful, but not quite placated, Severus sank back into the bed with a half-sigh, half-growl, and watched Madame Pomfrey herd out the nosy crowd. Not wishing to look upon the scene any longer, he closed his eyes.

Hearing the door to his private ward close, he was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard a voice to his immediate right.

"Good morning, Severus."

Groaning internally, he opened his eyes again. There, in the chair occupied hours earlier by a blonde sprite, sat the grave, greying figure of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. Dressed crisply in flowing green robes, bearing the seal of Hogwarts on a badge over her heart, she was authoritative in countenance, and hard-won wisdom gleamed in her eyes.

If he were in a brighter mood (but when was he ever?), he might have found it in him to appreciate the subtle transformation from Deputy to Headmistress. As things stood, he did little more than glare at her petulantly.

"Can't this wait?" he asked irritably. Merlin, his voice sounded awful.

"I am not about to interrogate you," Minerva told him, although something in her voice told him that had been nearly foremost on her mind. He refrained as best he could from rolling his eyes.

"Good. I—believe Potter can provide you—with an apt account. If he—" hack "—hasn't already," he coughed harshly.

Minerva smiled slightly. "Yes, Mr. Potter has gone through a great deal of trouble to make sure your part in all of this was understood—by all. You will be glad to know that, in light of recent truths, you will not stand trial for any misdemeanors or charges previously alleged against you. The Ministry would like nothing from you save for a formal statement of events—and to honor you with the Order of Merlin, First Class."

Severus took this in silently.

"The press may be of issue to you for a while," Minerva continued conversationally after a pregnant pause. "But I imagine that you are more than capable of fending them off. You could make quite a sport of it—once you're properly healed of course."

Absently, he rubbed the thumb and index finger of his right hand together, his attention having drifted from Minerva to the door. "Of course," he muttered.

Minerva watched him for a moment, her stern lips pursing and un-pursing, as if debating on whether or not to speak. After what seemed like a long time, she drew in a long breath and sighed.

"I do have some things I must discuss with you," she admitted. "But, I think I shall broach those subjects to you when you've made more progress towards recovery." Placing her hands on her knees, she stood slowly, smoothing out her robes.

The movement recaptured Severus' attention, and he brought his gaze back to her. It occurred to him how exhausted she looked, how battle-worn and fatigued and wizened and old. As if she had gained fifty years in the last few days.

Surveying her slowly, he nodded. "Yes, I know . . . Thank you," and it felt strange coming from him, voice so devoid of its usual vitriol, the off-handed sentiment thick and talcy on his tongue.

Minerva shook her regal head. "No. Thank _you_ , Severus." Her eyes shone like polished moss-agates, reverential and sincere. It was a look he was unaccustomed to receiving: sympathy, and unadulterated gratitude. He couldn't decide which was worse to behold; he almost looked down.

But he held her gaze for several seconds longer, matching her with his own consuming stare. A stare that ate up any apology she might have tossed at him, a stare that begged silence and nothing more.

After a long while, she nodded. And it was not Severus, but Minerva that then looked away, casting her eyes downward, as if in shame. Or as if she was unworthy to look at him. Directly her voice at the floor, she asked quietly:

"Is there anything else you require?"

He shook his head once, with great effort.

"Only bed rest I . . . would assume," the last words were nearly inaudible, coming from his raw throat.

She nodded again, flicking her eyes up briefly to meet his again. "Of course, Severus. I shall return when you are rested."

When he said nothing in reply, she took that to mean that he was tired, and the conversation was over. Steeling herself, the new Headmistress was about to turn heel-

"Minerva."

She halted. Turned back to him.

Sitting up in bed once more, Severus gave her a curios look.

"Minerva . . . was there . . . a student in here?"

She felt her forehead wrinkle. "No. Not according to Madame Pomfrey and her aide. Why do you ask?"

She watched his black eyes slide from the empty chair, to his bedside table, to the floor, and back at the chair again. His face remained expressionless, save for the tiniest purse of his lips.

"Never- nevermind." He coughed.

Choosing (mercifully) not to press the subject, she inclined her head. "Just get some rest, Severus. I shall see what I can do about having some articles from your library brought to you, if you find yourself in tedium." She gave her best attempt at a wry smile.

He didn't have the strength to return her grimace. _Because Merlin forbid that, after years of spying and war, I become_ _ **bored**_ _. . . ._

 

//

 

He was surprised to find that, despite having been unconscious for several days, sleep came easily and quite readily to him. Minerva had not been gone for more than an hour or two before he fell once again into the abyss of unconsciousness.

Around four that afternoon, he awoke again. Poppy came in, inspected his wounds, changed his bandages, and administered to him three potions. One was for tissue regeneration and repair; and the last was a simple nutritional supplement, to compensate for the food his body would not be able to presently handle. Again, he fell rather quickly asleep once she had left him.

Dreams plagued him constantly. It was the one thing his coma—and months before that, nightly doses of Dreamless Sleep elixir or a few shots of Firewhiskey—had blissfully shielded him from, the wildcard that normal slumber was now taunting him with. He dreamt of blood, of giant snakeskin, of water cold and dark as ink, of large black stallions and armor that weighed him down like lead. When he awoke alone in his private ward, his back was often drenched in a cold sweat, the smell of rotted flesh in his nose.

That night, as he sat in bed, awake, feeling his eyes grow heavy and dreading it, he looked again at the figure on his bedside table. The black knight chesspiece stood there inconspicuously, the piece turned outward to face the room. As if to protect him.

Hazily, thoughts bogged down by the painkiller, he found himself thinking on the strange blonde girl that was responsible for his present existence. The little chit who had found him and willed him to live, who placed him in the hands of those who might try and mend his broken body. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to spit at her.

He sank down into the hospital bed and waited for his eyes to drop closed.

 

//

 

_In this dream, he was chained to a horse—a threstral, possibly, a dragon horse, with a soft, velveteen body and scaly wings. His entrapments were silver manacles woven into the beast's lush black mane. In this dream, he pulled and pulled at his restraints—but the chains only became shorter, pulling him closer to the horse until his hands were buried in the animal. It sang ferociously, snarling at him like a hellhound, pulling him around like a rag doll. It was taking them across a marsh, towards the sound of rushing water, the sound of tall, steep waterfall. He could see the edge approaching, the sharp drop visible through the rising fog. The steed bucked, nearly throwing him, but he held and they drew closer and closer—_

Eyes snapping open, he shot up, breathing catching in his throat.

From beside him, a soft voice floated out of the dim:—

"Trouble sleeping, Professor?"

He didn't recall ever being more gratified to hear another person's voice.

* * *

_**So? Comments? Questions? I attempted to make them not too OOC, but it's kind of inevitable. A post-war Snape is bound to behave differently.** _


	2. The Night Hath Been to Me A More Familiar Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title is borrowed from a Byron poem. The poem Luna is reading is also Byron, "Prometheus". I do not own either Lord Byron, or Harry Potter.

By Madame Pomfrey's estimate, it would take him at least another two weeks of recovery in the sanctum (or prison, as he preferred to think of it) of the infirmary before he would be well enough to become an outpatient. Naturally, he countered her assessment with a furious and well-thought-out argument; however, much to his irritation, she refused to hear him out, tutting at him and fussing around him while he tried in vain to explain that he was "bloody fantastic" and did not need to be "coddled and cossetted like a ninnyhammer first-year".

He could not say he was surprised at her disregard of his self-diagnosis. In the back of his mind, he knew that whatever he said to her would be utterly unhelpful in springing him loose; and, truthfully, he did it more to rile himself up than because he thought it might aid his case any. Either way, he was going to be confined to this fucking ward for another fortnight or so; the least he could do was make it mildly interesting for himself.

And, whilst unable to leave his room (technically, he could go out and walk around the rest of the ward, but he didn't fancy the stares he might receive from other patients), sources of interest were exceedingly hard to come by. The first day, he'd had a house elf bring him some books from the Headmaster's office; he'd succeeded in occupying himself for a few hours with the tomes before a searing headache attacked him, and he left them to his bedside table. For the rest of the day, he lay there, with his eyes closed, willing the pain into a dull ache; when Madame Pomfrey came in around seven with his supper (which looked mildly appealing, to his surprise) and evening medication, he had managed to put enough of a reign on it to sit up in bed and begin reading again.

It was annoying, eating with her sitting right next to him. She did not watch him intensely, but merely sat at his side, reading her weekly MediWitch journal, glancing up occasionally. Though the meal had at first looked appeasing, and tasted far less bland than normal infirmary food, he found after a few bites that he had no appetite.

When he pushed his plate away after clearing (with difficulty) half of its contents, Madame Pomfrey looked up. Her expression was unreadable, and she said nothing as she took it from him, trading his half-finished meal for several vials of potion and a glass of water to chase them down.

After making sure that he had swallowed all of the required medication, Madame Pomfrey dimmed the lights and let him be. Almost immediately, drowsiness began to settle in on him. The potions she had administered were the same from yesterday, only more powerful now that his faculties were more well-adjusted to a non-coma state. The potion to regrow and repair damaged tissue taste even more vile this time; he was only consoled by the immediate sedative side effects which would, he knew, quickly lead him to sleep.

Less well known fact was that this drug-slumber was not simply peace and blackness.

He tried not to feel the creep of dread as sleep slowly consumed his body, tried to fight away the nigglings of panic that touched his mind like icy pinpricks. But even as he fell into the deep abyss of sleep, a part of him, mad and frantic, tried to claw its way back out, tried to avoid. . . .

 

//

 

Screaming. 

All around him. ambient, like the sound of howling wind. Piercing his eardrums, making them bleed. 

He looked down at the ground, saw his feet poking out from beneath his robes. Heavy robes. Deatheater robes. His arm burned, the mark stinging like a fresh tattoo, but he dared not pull back his sleeve to look at it. No. must not. Must not. . . . 

He stepped forward, not in control, lethargic steps that left his head spinning. Where was he going? He was walking without moving: rather, the ground was moving underneath him, bringing him closer and closer to what seemed to be a large, gaping hole in the earth, closer, closer. He blinked past the blinding flashes of light in his eyes, strained his neck to see. . . . 

And there, in the mouth of the earth, lay bodies. 

Naked, white as the bellies of fish, of amphibians. Nude and unprotected and soft and cold. Children. 

As he looked down at the mass of dead young flesh, one of them stirred. 

Lying under the painfully supine body of a young, scrawny, black-haired boy, a little girl, six, seven maybe, with silver-blonde hair opened her eyes. She blinked once, her hematite black orbs glinting. She had no irises nor pupils, he couldn't tell where or what she was looking at. But when she tilted her head up and angled it at him, he knew. She was looking up at him. 

Her eyes bulged. Her jaw snapped open—

No.

No . . . 

NO!

"Professor?"

He jerked back to life, body spasming as he gasped for air he wasn't lacking. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, temporarily blocking out all other sound save for his own withered gasping. His chest was tight and painful, and his entire body seemed to sing unpleasantly as if all his muscles had fallen asleep—

Gently, something—or someone—nudged his right shoulder.

"Pruh . . ssers n . . p."

Though the pounding in his ears obscured most of the syllables, something in him perked up, recognizing the sound.

He knew that phrase. It was his.

With a determination that he could smell, the figure beside him spoke again:—

"Pruhf. . . er . . . ssev rus." 

The voice . . . sounded soft and familiar and close. But . . . Why couldn't he see them?

Suddenly, some part of him that still new how to control his body realized that he had his eyes screwed shut.

Before he could pause to consider the possible consequences of doing so, he opened his eyes.

For a moment, he thought he was dreaming again: all around him was almost lost in utter darkness—save for the floating set of candles to his immediate right.

Turning his head slowly, his tired eyes rounded on what was becoming of late a welcome and familiar sight.

Luna Lovegood sat up straight and smiled at him. She was dressed in muggle clothes, faded jeans and a colorful jumper. The candlelight glowed in the high planes of her delicate cheeks and her smooth, pale forehead; it glinted in her eyes and seemed to dance, though he'd learned that this illusion had little to do with the quivering flames.

Despite her soft, eternally-contented smile, she looked tired, and it was with some fatigue that she removed her left hand from his shoulder and used both to move the heavy textbook from her lap to the floor.

Severus watched her closely. This was the fourth night in a row that he had awoken to find the strange little Ravenclaw at his bedside; some nagging part of him wanted to shoo her away, curse at her, get up and throw her damn book across the room, bellow at her until her ears were ringing. Grudging as he was to admit it, though, that notion was easily overridden by the overwhelming relief he felt when he jerked awake and found her sitting placidly next to him.

As always, he found his tattered voice and addressed her softly:

"Lovegood."

Her smile broadened by a fraction, producing faint dimples.

He paused, taking her in. She smelt, as always, dulcet and earthy. Like rich soil and pine trees and some unnamable flower.

"I still can . . . not discern how . . . you manage to get—get in here." His voice came forth staggering, unhealthy, his throat still raw and unhealed.

She blinked at him sweetly. "Can't you?"

"Not even . . . Min-McGonagall could break the w—the wards if she . . . didn't have a keyword."

"I don't have a keyword."

"No. You do not."

"Og lets me in."

He refrained from shaking his head in confusion; bodily memory told him that moving his head in any uncareful manner was not a good idea. "Og?"

"Your gargoyle. Ognyum. They brought him down from the fourth floor, west wing. He's Bulgarian."

He felt an eyebrow raise as he took a moment to consider. So. Not only was he awaking in the middle of the night in the company of the school's resident nutcase, but she was also in cahoots with his gargoyle. His Bulgarian gargoyle. Named Ognyum. Fascinating.

"And why . . . would he let you in?" he tried his best to sneer and failed miserably.

The smile had dropped from her face a few moments ago, but her face was still a picture of serenity. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe he thinks you need the company. They're very intuitive, gargoyles, even if they are made of stone. Very compassionate."

He didn't know whether she purposely inserted double meaning in those words, but he narrowed his eyes at her in any case. "Ongy . . . Og thinks I need your company?" The words were not mean-sounding, though he wished they were. The truth of the matter was that, despite how much he desired (at least on the surface) for Luna Lovegood to disappear and leave him to his miserable tossing and turning, he felt an undeniable calm when in her presence. It was as if her aura of serenity was sloughing off on him; her presence made him feel strangely . . . well, safe.

And he hated himself for it.

Folding her slender legs so that she was sitting Indian style in her chair, she rested her hands on her crossed ankles and shrugged. Looking him straight in the eye, she asked simply:

"Do you?"

He stared back at her, tried his utmost to glare. He remembered a time when a single glance from him could make any first year, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin wet themselves and scurry off to find shelter from his gaze. He wanted to resurrect that man now. Except his eyes were too preoccupied with the way her hair seemed to halo her head, and he sounded and felt, not fearsome, but rather breathless.

"No."

Anything mean or stern that had made its way into his tone was completely lost on her, he could tell. She just continued to regard him with that unflinching, nonjudgmental, sharp-skyblue stare.

"If you want me to leave, I can."

 

//

 

Funnily enough, he did not ask her to leave. Not that night, nor the night after that, nor the one after that. Every night, in the middle of every gruesome nightmare, there she was: her feathery voice, her semi-corporeal touch. She was there to wake him, and she stayed, chatting away or reading in silence, or reading aloud to him, biding the time until finally he drifted back off to sleep.

By his ninth night in the infirmary, waking up to see Lovegood had become ritual. Now, all it took was the lightest of her touches or even the sound of her voice to rouse him from whatever horrid fantasy his brain had concocted; it was as if his mind were unconsciously anticipating it. Lovegood herself had certainly made it part of her routine: she had taken to bringing her schoolwork with her, plopping her bag down by the side of her chair, conjuring up a small desk for her to write on. Sometimes, when he was feeling more aware, he guided her through problems or told her interesting anecdotes about spells she was learning. Quite often, he was lulled to sleep by the scratching of her quill, or her dreamy voice as she read to him from her history textbook.

To his utter (if belated) dismay, their topics of conversation would stray from school and they would actually . . . talk.

 

//

 

"Harry has been talking about you," she told him once. On anyone else, it would have been an off-handed, maybe sly comment. Coming from her, it was just what it sounded like: a statement, no string attached.

Severus really did sneer this time (he'd been playing a game with himself, testing himself, seeing if he could bring back the old venom in the presence of this waif-girl; somehow, it was fitting that the one time he managed to be even mildly nasty, it had nothing to do with her).

"I am certain he has."

Luna hadn't been looking at him when she'd first spoken, her gaze skimming over the contents of her Analytical Potions Exam I study guide; he'd been helping her make notes and corrections, quizzing her, making her work through problems. Now, she was giving it a final read-through (which was, he knew, utterly pointless; he had already made sure that she'd pass with flying colors). When he spoke in a tone that was more snarky than he'd ever achieved before in her vicinity, she still didn't look up. "He wants to apologize," she said mildly, turning a page.

Sitting up in his bed, Severus quietly seethed. Fucking Potter. Always doing the chivalrous thing. Always playing the moralistic hero. "I do not need charity from Harry bloody Potter," he growled, and the action made his throat constrict painfully.

At the low, irate utterance from deep within his throat, Luna finally did look up. Her crystalline eyes were as calm and unreadable as ever.

"He is genuinely sorry, Professor."

He laughed then, a bitter, barking laugh, a rare and lethal weapon he used only to make the supposedly thick skins of seventh years and opponents crawl. It was harsh and eerie and let his throat be damned. It was worth it just to see the little blonde chit raise a pale eyebrow, her petal-like mouth parting in surprise.

He drank in the sight, unbearably pleased with himself. "Sorry?" he spat. "Sorry for what, precisely? For calling me a coward? For leaving me to die? For not making sure I was dead? For not killing me when he got the chance? What does he mean by it? Does he regret not having the generosity to give me the only peace I might ever know? Tell me, please do, I am dying and utterly desperate to know how bloody sorry the boy is."

It was difficult to tell what crossed her face then. It was a brief, kaleidoscope flurry of emotions, but he caught the fact that most of them were not all that pleasant. There was, in fact, something almost sinister that darted around the usually star-lit corners of her eyes.

After a long, chilly pause, she finally murmured:—

"It's my fault you're alive. Not Harry's."

If you are going to hate someone, hate me. 

She didn't say that. Her lips hadn't moved.

But he heard it, clear as day. And there it hung in the air.

And Severus, for all the ice and poisonous thorns that surrounded the shriveled, blackened organ that was supposed to be his heart, found that he couldn't do it.

He couldn't bring himself to hate her.

He rolled over, unable to look at her. He shut his eyes and willed himself not to think.

After a few minutes, Lovegood began to hum.

 

//

 

He felt ashamed for nights after that.

He was accustomed to shame, or so he thought. He'd experienced plenty of it in his time: shame for not being pure of blood, for being bullied by classmates; for not being the perfect son his mother wanted, for letting his muggle father abuse him; shame for betraying Lily's generous friendship and for not betraying Albus's; shame for the way he lived. For living at all.

Somehow, this was different. He couldn't pinpoint it. But it was.

Perhaps it was due to the fact that, around Ms. Lovegood, he felt no shame.

He wasn't abashed or angry or embarrassed.

She made him feel . . . oddly at ease.

So he was careful after that. Careful with his words, with his temper. He no longer tried to make himself vile, or to make her dislike him. Perhaps because he realized he was still all too capable.

And, for some unfathomable, flabbergasting reason, he wanted her to like him.

Or at least to tolerate him.

The nightmares were lessening. Sometimes, they were nothing more than shadows with emotional charge, not actual night terrors but murky waters in his mind. All of this was comforting.

Not so comforting was that, more and more these days, he could not imagine waking up without having that mad flower child sitting at his side.

 

//

 

The next time he broached the subject, it was subtle, even artful. Right down to the last second before he spoke, he knew there was no way he could inject any amount of ire into his voice. His tone was calm, collected, even mild—well, mild for him.

"You did me a great disservice, you know."

It was amazing, how she knew immediately what he was getting at; even more amazing was the utter serenity with which she replied: "Did I?"

"Yes," he replied neutrally. Then, unable to hold it back, he gave a small sigh. "Surviving was never something I calculated into my plans, Ms. Lovegood."

"Oh? Why's that, Professor?"

"I . . . the statistical probability was never in my favor."

"Oh. Do you believe in fate, professor?"

He looked at her quizzically, venturing, "Not particularly . . . especially not after listening to Sybill rant endlessly under her breath at staff meetings."

At this, the corners of Luna's eyes crinkled with unreleased laughter. "I understand," she said. There was a pause as she looked down at the nearly forgotten Quibbler in her lap, not turning her attention back to it, but merely collecting her thoughts.

"I believe in fate," she affirmed at last. Bringing her eyes up, she looked at him with one of those damnably unreadable expressions. He still wasn't accustomed enough to her oddity that this particular gaze did not perturb him at least somewhat.

"However," she continued, "I also believe that a lot of things are left up to chance."

At this, her gaze slunk down his face, his neck, to his torso. His bandaged, battered, bruised, but otherwise bare torso. Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped ten solid degrees, and he wished he had accepted the flimsy, irritating hospital shirt that Poppy had offered him earlier, abruptly aware and somewhat self-conscious of his nakedness. To be true, there were enough bandages over his chest, shoulders, neck, and arms to suffice as a shirt, albeit a skin-tight one; and, because Lovegood was always looking at him square in the eyes if at all, his apparent shirtlessness hadn't previously been an issue.

But something about the way she was staring made him cringe ever so slightly inside. He felt the weight of her eyes as they lingered over ever cover of white gauze, every clay-red stain. She scoured his mangled form, watching his muscles tighten apprehensively beneath the bandages and skin.

Of its own accord, his flesh nearly flung itself from his bones when she laid a small, pale hand on the large bandage taped across his chest. He dared not

"I think it's very lucky that you survived that snake," she said softly. "But I don't think it was quite coincidence."

His breath came out shallow; he was torn between letting her hand keep resting as it was, it's comfortable feather-lightness upon his breast, or giving into his self-damning horror and swatting it away, possibly sending her sprawling to the floor.

"Harry Potter's entire existence was about fate," she mused, staring intently at the space her small hand was occupying, as if he didn't have a face. "There were so many times when he could have died—when he was supposed to die—but fate had to save his death for just the right moment. I say you are very lucky, Professor—too lucky."

She smiled at him kindly, tapping his chest lightly with one finger and then retracting her hand from him completely. He tried to lessen the obvious signs of relief, letting his breath out slowly, unclenching his tightened muscles as laggardly as possible.

She sat beside him in silence after that. She let him stew in his thoughts and listen to the sound of her breathing while she turned the pages of her (curiously upsidedown) magazine. When he finally fell back to sleep, it was to the faint, nearly inaudible tinkle of her chuckling.

 

//

 

They kept the topics of conversation fairly light after that. After those two brief and uncomfortable forays into deep, meaningful discussion, he didn't feel quite like delving into personal matters with the girl—particularly as she was so perceptive and uncannily insightful. It was disturbing, to be examined and deduced so expertly by such a young, waifish girl-thing.

For a few nights there, he had absolutely no nightmares. He did not wake up in a cold sweat to the caw of his own screams, but to the soft, soothing sound of Lovegood humming quietly.

When she saw that he'd awoken, she'd greet him with conversational, if odd questions. She did not, to his relief, ever ask about his dreams; nor did she ask him to talk about the war, his part in it, to explain the great mystery that was Severus Snape. He knew that when he was released, there would be countless of people clamoring at him for answers. McGonagall had been by several times during the day to check on him, try to pry information from him. He told her only what he thought she needed to know and it frustrated her, but she eventually let him be. Potter, apparently, had also been trying to visit, though he gave explicit orders to Poppy that the boy was not to set one foot in his room less she wanted to be scraping Potter goo off the walls.

That was one of the questions Minerva had pestered him with; she (and the entire bloody world) now knew that the last twenty years of Severus' life had been devoted to protecting the child of Lily Evans. Yet, now that the war was over, her spawn was the absolute last thing he wanted to see.

Collectively, Minerva spent a good hour asking about that particular issue from every angle her agile mind could manage. But he remained stalwart and silent.

Lovegood, for her part, asked none of the questions that so bewildered and piqued everyone else. In reality, she seemed fairly uninterested in the entirety of it. She took much more delight in asking him what his favorite kind of cuisine was, what scent he found the most appealing, what, in his opinion, was the best way to deal with a troublesome bunch of marlingduroughs. A lot of the questions she asked him he could only gape cluelessly at (such as the query about marlingduroughs; apparently, they were domestic pests, though he had some doubts about the credulity of their existence). Sometimes, when not asking him questions or having him check her schoolwork, she told him stories; a few of them were stories from her childhood, but most were tales and myths told to her by her father.

And sometimes, for no reason at all, she would forgo the latter past-times completely, and read him poetry.

". . . 'And Man in portions can foresee  
His own funereal destiny;  
His wretchedness, and his resistance,  
and his sad unallied existence'. . ."

He listened to her voice chant in the darkness. Honestly, he had never cared much for poetry; a lot of sappy lovelorn fools seemed the lot of poets to him. But listening to her read to him began to make him wonder if he had been too rash. That maybe he hadn't had enough exposure to make a proper judgment of all written, poetic word. Whenever she read to him, she rarely selected pieces about love or passion.

No. the poetry Lovegood selected for him was serious. Gritty, perhaps sometimes romantic; but never naïve.

But that was Lovegood all over.

How paradoxical was she. So doe-like, yet so shiny and sharp underneath.

"to which his Spirit may oppose  
Itself—and equal to all woes,  
And a firm will, and a deep sense  
Which even in torture can descry  
Its own concenter'd recompense  
Triumphant where it dares defy,  
And making Death a Victory.'" 

"Lovegood."

She looked up, tucking a stray strand of pale blonde hair behind her left ear. Her earring, a myriad design of interlocking triangles tinkled airily. She only had on the one, he knew; a few nights ago, when moving her massive hair around her neck, he caught sight of her right ear, only to see that the bottom part of the lobe had been ripped off. When he asked her about it (somewhat tentatively), she explained that it had been Alecto Carrow's work during a detention. Madame Pomfrey had offered to regrow the severed lobe, but she'd refused.

"Yes?"

He glanced again at the antique circular analog clock above the door on the other side of the room. It read 7:39. "You do know that it is nearing eight."

She blinked at him, like a particularly slow child. Lethargically, she turned her head and swiveled the rest of her body, craning around to see.

"Oh," he heard her say softly. Perhaps there was some disappointment in her voice. He couldn't tell.

Regardless, she swiveled back, bent down, and began shuffling with her bag, putting back her quills and textbooks and the book of collected Byron she'd been reading from. "I suppose I'll have to get to class soon."

He frowned, trying to get her attention. "Ms. Lovegood . . ."

"I was going to go back to the dorms and have a quick shower—but I suppose there's time if I skip breakfast—"

"Lovegood—"

"—but I don't want my stomach to growl during class. Hm . . . Oh! I could use a cleaning charm—"

"Luna."

At the sound of her name, she immediately stopped her shuffling, turning her face up to look at him. At that same moment, the spelled lights in the private ward glowed to life, illuminating her face properly.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the new brightness, he felt his stomach twist unpleasantly. Lovegood's face was pale, nearly pale as his starched sheets; under her eyes, however, there were rings of dark purple.

More disturbing, however, were her eyes themselves. Looking into them was like watching an injured dancer attempting to perform: they still rolicked with their customary jovial light, but it looked strained somehow. Washed out.

Only then did it occur to him that, while he could sleep off the hours during the day that he missed at night, Luna Lovegood probably did not have the same luxury. Mentally, he kicked himself. Merlin. He was such a bloody selfish idiot. 

"Lovegood," he reverted to her surname, uncomfortable with the familiarity of her first. "When was the last time you slept?"

She tilted her head, suddenly looking very lost. "Hm?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, suddenly irritated. "Don't play dumb with me, girl. How long have you been awake?"

Despite (or perhaps because of) his slightly menacing tone, her bright blue eyes softened. She gave him a weak smile and a half-shrug of her small shoulders.

"I'm not sure, professor," she replied. Glancing down, she tucked a flyaway strand of blonde hair behind her left ear. the volume of her voice dropped lower with every syllable, and he strained to hear. "I don't really . . . remember . . ."

His lips pursed in what he hoped wasn't a very McGonagall-like way. "Try."

She met his eyes briefly, but dropped her attention to her knees almost instantly. Lips barely moving, she mumbled:—

"Since your last nightmare, I think. . ."

He couldn't help it. He stared at her.

"Four days?"

"Please don't be angry, Professor. I heard Madame Pomfrey saying that getting you riled up might exacerbate your condition—"

"Damn by bleeding condition," he hissed, sitting up straight, black eyes boring into her. Merlin. Why did he feel so angry? "You require sleep, Ms. Lovegood— what in the name of Salazar is wrong with—"

The look on her heart-shaped face made the words shrivel up in his mouth; his irritation, as soon as it had entered him, fled his bloodstream just as quickly. He breathed out slowly, his body slowly unconstricting from the tension it had so deftly built up.

Seeing that she was still looking at the worn, frayed knees of her jeans (did the girl own any pants without holes in them?), he let out a long, low sigh. Once he thought his temper and voice were in check, he tried again:

"Ms. Lovegood . . . as . . . grateful," (the word was ridiculously painful to say), "as I am for . . . your company, you cannot . . . this is not healthy for you. . . ."

Still not looking up, she nodded silently. Her hands twisted themselves in knots in her lap.

A pregnant and unsettling pause followed that, and Severus racked his brain, trying to think of something else to say. He couldn't do this. He didn't know how to properly scold and console a teenage girl simultaneously. Oh, Merlin's balls. This was ludicrous.

While they both sat there in their first genuinely awkward silence, there was a small knock at the door.

And that got both of their attentions. Lovegood whipped her head up and looked at the door like a cornered animal while Severus' eyes bulged in alarm, his hair standing on end. Fuck. Not good. Though they weren't technically breaking any rules, if Poppy—or anyone—saw . . . he was still only in his gauze dressings, and, Merlin, that would be just bloody awkward, nevermind suspicious—

Kill me now, he thought as the door creaked open.

Beside him, he heard Lovegood take in a sharp breath.

Tentatively, a small, long-eared house elf shuffled into the room. Its gargantuan green eyes roved from Severus to Luna, looking slightly worried and mostly horrified.

"Gu—Gudy is sorry to bother!" the elf squeaked, eyes darted so fast between the two now that Severus was going to be sick if he continued watching their progress. The elf bowed its large head and lifted the tray it had been carrying high, as if in offering. "Gudy brings Master Snape his breakfast!"

The elf stood there like that, trembling. Severus was too busy trying to regather his wits and slow his breathing (because, obviously, they were not in danger); Lovegood, for her part, rose from her little chair and approached the house-elf with warm, light footsteps.

"Thank you very much, Gudy," she said, and Severus could hear the genuine smile in her voice. "I can take the tray for you, if you like."

The tray exchanged hands and, after several more blubbering apologies, there was a loud crack as the house elf disapparated back to the kitchens.

As soon as the little creature was gone, Severus let out the breath he'd been holding, bringing on hand up and resting it on his chest. His heart was still beating swiftly, he could even feel it beneath the thick gauze. Brow furrowing, he closed his eyes, only reopening them when he felt something being set on his bed and heard Lovegood alighting back onto her chair.

"They certainly take pains to make it appealing for you," Lovegood remarked, and he followed her gaze to the tray. It had been laden down with a bowl of oatmeal, a mug and pot of steaming tea, two muffins, eggs, a banana, and a tall glass of milk. If he were one to appreciate such things, he would have agreed with her: it probably was a scrumptious meal.

However, being Severus Snape, resident impossible bastard, he bypassed the food and went straight for the mug of tea. Lifting it from the tray, he let the rising steam waft towards him. Chai . At least the house elves were picking up on some things.

Sliding the Prophet out from under the plate on which the muffins and eggs were seated, he propped it up in front of him, scanning the headlines. Bullocks, as per usual. Tracking down missing Deatheaters. Potter attends another Ministry gala with the female Weasley clutching his arm possessively. He sneered at the boy in the pictures, his young face voicing his discomfort clearly while cameras flashed at him from every angle. Bloody pomp and circumstance. As if the wizarding world hadn't already asked too much of the boy; now they had him performing like a trained monkey. Peachy. He was about to raise the mug to his mouth when he noted the girl watching his tray with a restrained sort of interest. He raised his tea to his lips, using the mug to hide the small smirk that had formed there.

"Stop gawking and take anything you like," he deadpanned as nonchalantly as possible. "The more Poppy thinks I've eaten, the better mood she will be in when she decides to have a prod at my injuries."

Luna lifted her head: the smile she shone on him was positively dazzling, so much that it nearly hurt his eyes to look back.

He didn't return the smile, but she continued to beam at him anyway as she helped herself to a banana nut muffin and his glass of milk. Deliberately, he pulled his eyes away from her, using a little bit of wandless magic to suspend the paper before him and flip it casually with a wave of one long, elegant finger.

They sat in companionable silence, Severus skimming the newspaper, Luna working through part of his breakfast. He tried not to think about how utterly farcical the entire thing was: here he sat, Severus Snape, formerly (and possibly still) the most hated teacher in all of Hogwarts, reading the newspaper and drinking tea while a skinny, slip of a daisy-girl munched away at his breakfast. And he was still trying not to smirk.

Why? he wondered, looking over the business section of the Prophet. There was nothing particularly comical about the situation. It had been so long since he'd genuinely smiled he wouldn't have been surprised if he had forgotten how. Nonetheless, he could feel it, tugging at the edges of his stern mouth. . . .

About seven minutes before eight o'clock, Lovegood stood, brushing crumbs off of her jeans as she did so. "Thanks for the breakfast, sir," she said brightly, stooping to pick up her bag. She slung it over her shoulder, and whipped out her wand. Pointing it at herself, she muttered a quick "Scourgify".

"There," she said approvingly, looking down at herself. "Clean as a whistle. Not quite as satisfying as a shower, but it'll do in a pinch, I suppose." Shaking out her mass of blonde, scraggly hair, she gave him another smile and a cheery, "Good day!" and started on her way out towards the door.

From his bed, he called out:

"Ms. Lovegood."

She halted, pivoting gracefully to looked back at him.

"I do not want you to come back here." He locuted his words slowly deliberately, giving her a level and weighty black gaze. "Is that understood?"

She caught his look full on. Damn her. Why was her demeanor so completely obtuse? As a spy, he had often bet his life on his own judgment of the subtlest expressions of others. Even without Occlumency, he was immensely adept at reading people. But this insufferable girl-child . . . there was definitely something brewing behind those crystalline blue irises, some flicker of shadow, but it was gone before he had time to categorize it. Blast.

But before his discomfort and irritation could materialize, she nodded her head once, and gave him a smile that, to him, didn't seem quite natural.

"Yes, Professor Snape. I understand."

 

//

 

True to her word, Lovegood did not return that night.

He woke with a start, gasping and gripping at his sheets, his chest pounding painfully. Habitually, he jerked his head to the right, eyes moving to the spot where she usually sat, patient and waiting for him.

But there was no one there.

The empty space where she should have been greeted him, a stretching black chasm.

It took him about an hour to calm down to where his heart wasn't trying to escape his ribcage, and another thirty minutes before he could relax enough to try and close his eyes. Eventually, sometime around four A.M. he suspected, he did manage to fall asleep.

 

//

 

Three nights passed and Luna Lovegood did not reappear. On the morning of the fourth day, Madame Pomfrey took longer than usual with her morning check-up. She undressed his wounds, nearly all of them pink and raw but healing nonetheless, scar tissue taking form to replace the jagged cuts and burns and whathaveyou. She gave them a long critical look, every once and a while sneaking a glance up at his face. After a good twenty minutes, she clucked her tongue, redressed him, notably less liberally, and gave him the news that he had been longing and dreading to hear.

He was free to go.

By ten o'clock, he was dressed in his normal clothes, the black robes feeling heavy but welcoming back on his slender frame. He looked around the private ward; all of his books and potion journals had been taken back to his rooms by house elves. There was nothing left here that was his.

His black eyes lit on his bedside table.

There, by the base of his lamp, where it had stood watch over him nearly every hour, was the black chess piece Lovegood had left him.

Before he could chide himself on the sentimentality of it, he plucked the black knight from its perch, and pocketed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Locute – not an actual word. This is me turning the noun "locution" into a verb for my own purposes.
> 
> Rolicked – past tense of "rolic" which is an old/archaic form of "frolic"


	3. Memorial

Three full days had passed since he'd left the confines of the infirmary. In that time, he had passed the days away in the seclusion of his private quarters. It was strange, being back in his dungeon chambers without having some overhanging sense of doom. It was strange to simply be, without having to think constantly of the possibility of impending danger; strange to be able to have private thoughts without worrying who might be trying to pry into his mind.

In the last twenty-odd years of his life, he'd hardly had time for leisure. Every waking moment he was on a mission, had a goal, whether it was to survive the day without hexing a first year (or, lately, Longbottom), or live-through another Deatheater meeting (wherein there was always a chance he might possibly be the main sport). The throb of his constant tension was so ingrained into his daily routine that its absence left something akin to an ache; so acclimatized, was he, to the assiduous violence and uncertainty that he found himself almost missing it. Truthfully, he didn't know how to behave, now that he was a free man.

Had he always had this pawn mentality? he wondered. When had he stopped thinking for himself? When had he given up his strings completely to his two master puppeteers? Did he remember how to be his own master? Had he ever learned?

That first day, he sat around, brooding over such things. He'd been afraid of this. It was part of the reason why he'd been both enthused and reluctant to leave the infirmary; enthused because he was so thankful to be outside of Poppy's jurisdiction (as someone had put it to him when he was still a student, she dealt with head wounds, not headcases), reluctant because of the inevitable confrontation of freedom. At least, there in the infirm, he didn't have a choice insofar as daily activities went; there, he was still a prisoner, could still function by that prisoner mindset.

But here? He looked around at his chambers, the comfy furnishings, the multitudes of books and journals, the occult artifacts that served both as decorations and subjects of study. This was him. All of it.

Merlin. Who was he?

As much as he wished to see absolutely no one, he found after the first day that it was nearly impossible for him to sit still with such thoughts nagging at his brain. He paced around his quarters in a flurry of thoughts, looking around the room, images of the past flashing up before his eyes. These rooms had seen the very worst of him: returning battered and bloody from Deatheater meetings and raids; sitting before the hearth and drinking until he no longer knew who he was; seething and snarling angrily in private fits of rage; leaning, almost helplessly, against a wall as he fought back whatever emotions had managed to snag a hold of him for a brief and unmerciful moment before they passed.

Yes. These rooms had acted both as a sanctuary for such private and unseemly displays, and as a prison, a place to live and relive and revel in his own personal hells. His private quarters were the only place he felt even mildly safe . . . and the one place he could hardly stand to be confined to. Years upon years of anguish, fury, jealousy, despair, and self-loathing had been etched into every nook and corner of these rooms, dripping black and unctuous from every wall. It was stifling. Suffocating.

Which is how, on the third night of his freedom from the hospital wing, he found himself, swathed in his usual billowing black robes, stalking the corridors of Hogwarts in the late hours of evening.

It was well and safely after curfew when he slunk out of his dungeon chambers. The prefects and House leaders had finished their post-curfew patrolling (which, he noted, had taken an extreme, if expected, turn for the lax since war's end); as such, he knew he would have the castle mostly to himself, leaving him free to wander where he may. All he need be wary of was the mangy ailurophile Filch and his avernal moggy, and even they were unlikely to be stalking about at this hour. . . .

His feet made next to no sound as he made his way through the lonesome halls and corridors. In the past, when he patrolled the hallways at night, his steps were usually either quick and exacting, or stealthy and spry; the steps of a man with intention, either to reach some destination or catch someone out of bed. Now, his steps held no such character. He found himself simply ambling along, his rhythm more of a leisurely stroll than anything else.

As he passed aimlessly through the hallways, eyeing the décor, the statues, other interesting marker, an unsettling multitude of vague memories and impressions washed over him. He had lived nearly all his life within these walls, he realized. There were other places he had been to, surely, but of those he had only fleeting (and often blood-soaked) memories; Hogwarts was the one focal point in his life, the one thing he always found himself returning to, like an ancestral home.

Except now, instead of feeling like a safe-haven, a stronghold for him to hole up in, it felt more like a tomb.

He'd buried all of his worst memories here. All was quiet in the castle, yet every stone jeered at him, an endless caterwauling echoing in his ears.

Unconsciously, as he zeroed in on the din, his pace quickened, feet sliding past each other with growing rapidity. Yes, he could hear it clearly: screaming, wails, insane laughter, screeching, all emanating from the very foundations of the school, from the very bellows of the earth upon which it was standing. His feet were eating up the ground now, his steps whispering panic as his breathing grew shorter with the lengthening of his stride.

Now practically flying tantivy through the hallways, he came upon a set of heavy double doors, which he pushed open without hesitation or seeming effort, leading him out into a covered colonnade surrounding the lesser courtyards. The chill of the winter air nipped sharply at his cheeks, but he continued his path, turning a corner sharply—

His racing heart nearly thudded to a complete halt when he saw another figure in his path. A shorter person, about fifteen feet ahead of him, steps so light that they were practically gliding across the floor. He himself cast in shadow, Severus watched the person come into a slant of moonlight.

As soon as Severus recognized the person, he was hit with a sting of annoyance, though it was much overpowered by an almost comforting sense of bewilderment. . . .

Without thinking, he opened his mouth, and said hoarsely, "You. . . ."

The blonde-headed figure stopped in its tracks, caught in the glow of moonlight. Turning slowly, he was indeed greeted by the contented, dreamy face of none other than Luna Lovegood.

"Hello, Professor. Out for a stroll?"

He ignored her question, surveying her up and down. The little chit was dressed in her day clothes, eternally ripped jeans, a mossy green pullover hoodie (that definitely did not look like it was made for the cold) hanging from her thin torso, bright yellow high-tops peeking out from under her jeans. In her right hand, she clutched her wand; in her left, there was a small, black satchel.

And, as usual, there was the twinkle of newborn stars in her smile.

"Don't you ever sleep?" he grated out roughly, slanting his gaze downward at her. He hadn't realized that he'd drawn closer towards her, but suddenly he found himself little more than four feet away.

She tilted her head up to match his gaze. Her slim shoulders gave a simple shrug. "Not really."

For all his formidable wit and acidic rhetorical skills, he did not have a riposte for that answer, so indifferent with smooth lemony-sullen undertones. He simply stared at her (a default stance when speaking with her, apparently), and she, ever the nonchalantly fearless one (even for one so small, so birdlike and delicate-looking) gazed back with those brilliant blue eyes.

Salazar have him, what was he supposed to do? If memory served, he normally handed out severe punishments to students found out of bed—but he wasn't even a professor any longer, not really. Did he still have that kind of judicial power? he wondered cynically.

Seeming to (uncannily) follow his train of thought, Luna blinked slowly at him, ghostly eyebrows shifting slightly.

"Are you going to give me a detention?" completely without inflection, without the remotest trace of interest. As if it didn't matter to her either way.

Merlin, she was beginning to be as terrible a rule-breaker as Potter.

Doing his best not to sigh, he intoned, "I see little to no point in doing so."

"Well, you were always my most astute professor, sir."

He scoffed. "Is that a compliment, Ms. Lovegood?" From anyone else—Granger, say—that might have been a way to butter him up for not doling out any form of punishment.

But from her . . . well, he already knew the answer.

"Nope."

Simple, straightforward, unapologetic. Nope.

Hm. The longer he watched her, the more he became aware of a strange warmth settling inside his chest, one that he wasn't at all sure he liked. Casting around for something to break the silence, he took her form again, attention drawn this time to the satchel in her hand.

"Permit me, Ms. Lovegood, to inquire: precisely where are you heading this hour of the night and what," he nodded by way of pointing, "is that?"

He might as well have told her that he was Father Christmas. He fought not to shield his eyes from her blinding enthusiasm.

"Would you like to see?"

He had barely opened his mouth to give verbal consent before she turned her heel, and began walking again, calling out over her shoulder, "Come along then, Professor."

He stared after her retreating form, watching her long blonde hair swished back and forth about her waist. He couldn't recall a student ever walking away from him before, in such a careless manner. Truthfully, his bafflement at the situation could have kept him there endlessly; but, he considered as he watched her go, that he would be more a fool to stay put than to simply follow her as she intended.

Insufferable. Presumptuous. 

And to think: he had thought those were Gryffindor traits.

 

//

 

The place to where Lovegood intended to lead him was actually fairly close. After a minute or so of walking along the colonnade, passing large archways revealing one snow-covered courtyard after another, she finally slowed to a stop. Severus (who had remained a respectably cool distance behind, despite that his strides could have easily outstripped her), came up to her where she was standing, and turned to look where her vague gaze was occupied.

He found himself peering through another gothic archway like the ones they had just passed, save for that this one was smaller and much narrower. And whereas, peering into the other archways, he had been able to discern the shapes of statues and topiary arrangements, the only thing he could see through this archway was flat, barren earth.

A glance at the smallish girl at his side, however, revealed her a small grin that told him he wasn't seeing everything.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt icy small, icy fingers tugging at his hand where it hung at his side.

Looking down, he saw that it was indeed Lovegood, tugging at his fingers as she stepped away from him, forwards into the archway, urging him to follow. As she stepped through, her hand left his, and he was once again left watching her retreating form as she wandered into the barren enclosure.

He stood for a moment, and let his eyes close, relishing for a moment the blackness. He breathed in the crisp, harsh winter air, exhaling and inhaling deeply and slowly. He felt the dull thud of blood through his body, whispering beneath his robes.

Letting out a long, controlled breath that may or may not have been a sigh, he opened his black eyes once more, and stepped through the archway after her.

What he found was that the plot in this particular space was not nearly as big as the other courtyards; in fact, it was quite small. A square-shaped enclosure, it was probably twenty feet on every side. There was nothing in the way of decoration or garden work, no statues or shrubbery to speak of. The only thing of interest at the moment was Lovegood, who was now crouched over a spot of earth, fumbling with something in her hands while she examined the ground. . . .

Severus paused. The ground. Eyes narrowed, he pulled his wand out from his robes, muttered a quick "Lumos" and pointed his wand downwards, illuminating some of the earth around his feet.

All around him—and all over the small enclosure, it looked like—were little raised patches of dirt, no more than a knut in diameter, as if the earth itself had goosebumps from the cold.

Looking up again, he saw that Lovegood was now fiddling around in the satchel she brought with her, sifting through the contents for something.

Snow crunched under his feet as he approached her. And, hearing his cautious advance, the girl spoke to him, voice ringing out clear and stark in the desert winterscape.

"Two-hundred and thirty seven people died at Hogwarts this year—three-hundred and fifty-one, if you include Deatheaters." No inflection, none whatsoever; a recitation of fact, as if she were giving him a history lesson.

"A little more than one fourth of the student population, and one third of the staff."

He was three feet from her now, simply staring down at the back of her mossy green hoodie.

"Sixty-four people helped to recover all of the bodies and remove them from the grounds; even still, it took three days."

He had been unconscious for all of that, comatose in the infirmary, oblivious to anything and everything, believing himself to be dead.

"It took another four to identify everyone. Some of the bodies were so badly mangled they were only recognizable by the remnants of their magical signatures."

He watched as she began preening the dirt with her hands, her fingers digging in and pushing dirt around, creating a small hole. Something in the back of his brain recalled her hands again, dirty and resting in her lap while she spoke to him about this and that in the early hours of the morning.

"Some bodies were never found. The Headmistress surmises that this is the result of discintegrating hexes, but we are also assuming that Greyback and his pack ate at least ten people."

Now, she was reaching into her black satchel, rummaging around again.

"The official list of names keeps growing, but I have enough to work with." She removed a small jar, full of what looked like small, ivory stones.

And suddenly, all the wind left Severus' lungs. His mind came to a frightening stand-still, and his throat ran dry.

Of its own accord, his mouth creaked open, and a raspy question escaped his parted lips.

"What . . . what is this?"

Only now did she stop, her hands about to untwist the lid of the jar, freezing in their action as she turned her crouched form to look back and up at him, face not so serene as uncannily expressionless.

"A memorial."

A wave of vertigo hit him like a vicious flurry of snow, and he tried his best not to stagger back, away from this changeling girl and her hollowed gaze. A feeling that he could only liken to a vague sense of horror undulated within him; soft but unrepentant, a warm, heavy blanket waiting to suffocate him.

Luna continued to watch him, and, as his attention refocused itself, it struck him that her face had changed drastically. Whereas before everything about her, from her mouth, to her eyes, to that off-and-on dimple on her left cheek, was teetering on the edge of a teasing, gentle smile . . . now, her heart-shaped face bore none of its usual levity. And suddenly, with stinging realization, Severus could see the deep shadows around her eyes, her painfully chapped lips, the tired crease of her blonde brow. She looked much older than her sixteen years.

Despite her wan comportment, she attempted to give him a smile. It shriveled and mellowed in sadness. Raising a hand, she beckoned him down to her level.

Careful not to jar his still-healing injuries, he descended slowly, crouching down beside her. She looked at him appraisingly, and he felt as if she were trying to scour his very soul with that eerie blue gaze. Then, picking up the faintly glowing jar at her side, she held it up in front of his face.

"They're moonstones," she clarified. Bringing her other hand to the jar, she continued opening the lid. "Each has the name of someone who died written on it."

Indeed, as he looked closer, he saw that each individual ivory stone had gold-silver lettering laced around their smooth, polished surfaces. The lettering shined faintly in the moonlight, only appearing when the stones were observed from certain angles. With all of them crammed in the jar, he couldn't make out any full names. Thank Circe for small favors.

"You bathe them in a mixture of rosewater, salt, and tarantacula venom," she said softly, setting the lid down beside her and reaching in for one of the stones. She held it between her thumb and forefinger, looking at it with a vague expression of wonder.

Finding that he was regaining some of his former composure, Severus asked with slight scoffing incredulity, "And where, pray tell, did you manage to get that?"

"Hagrid. He's friends with some of them, you know—the tarantacula. I imagine he's friends with quite a lot of magical beings—even though his knowledge of species is somewhat limited. He didn't even know what a larinkle was." She set about putting the stone in the ground.

Snape nodded silently, not wishing to make her privy to the fact that he didn't have the slightest idea what a larinkle was either. "And the rosewater?"

"Professor Sprout. She also tried to give me gloves to work with, but I like to have a more intimate connection with the dirt. I like the way it feels in my hands." She patted the earth where she had buried the stone, and brought her dirty fingers up, as if to show him. "So she gave me a hand-shovel instead. The moonstones I had on hand already—at least, I had one. They're all duplicates, you see, from the same stone."

"I see. And where did the original come from?"

A small, fleeting smile flickered across her face.

"Papa gave it to me, just before I was taken to Malfoy Manor."

Severus' expression grew quiet.

"He said it was charmed, that it would keep me safe. He shoved it into my hand just before you grabbed me."

What? Severus raised his eyebrows at the girl, surveying her critically. It had indeed been he who had grabbed her during the raid of the rook house that had been the Lovegood home . . . but there was no way she could have known that. He had been robed, like the others, in Deatheater garb—he had portrayed no sign of his identity. It wasn't until Malfoy Manor that he disrobed.

Thinking back on the scene in Malfoy Manor, he suppressed a shivering grimace.

"How," he put his question to her carefully, "could you have possibly known that it was I who accosted you?"

Lovegood looked away from him for a moment, casting her eyes down to the dirt. Absently, she picked up a small twig and began to trace patterns in it.

"When the Deatheaters entered my house . . . there were five, I think. Everyone else immediately when after Papa, but . . . you," she drew a spiral, winding her path outwards, "you didn't. You didn't even look at my father."

Because I knew what his fate was, Severus thought to himself. I knew he was not going to live.

"When you came across the threshold of our home . . . you glanced around for maybe a second," her voice was quieter now, her eyes shut tightly. The spiral was growing larger, but her circles were overlapping each other chaotically.

"Your head turned towards me. You came at me. A straight path. You knocked over Papa's myriadoscope, and our kitchen table. And came at me in a straight line."

With a sick crack, the twig snapped, a sound that echoed grimly in the desolate courtyard.

Luna's voice floated in the dim like icy fog.

"When you reached out for me . . . when you grabbed my wrist . . . it wasn't what I was expecting."

Severus found himself swallowing hard. She was now making a series of X's and S's in the dirt with the broken twig, continuing to stare at the ground.

"What was it?" he asked her softly. "What gave me away?"

Luna Lovegood stilled.

Suddenly, without warning, a pale, slender hand shot out like a jumping spider, startling him, and latching onto his wrist.

Severus nearly yelped in surprise, less at the realization that Lovegood was touching him and more at the fact that her hand was blistering hot.

"Your blood was singing to me," she whispered, her grip vice-like on his wrist. She was so small a girl, so waif-like—but he was half-convinced that his bones would shatter in her hold.

"Your touch was rough, but panicked, but protective. Harsh, but unconvincing." Her voice was odd now, rough, throaty, uncharacteristically heavy; an odd sensation was blooming from his wrist where her hand was, spreading along his arm, seeping into his veins.

"You didn't want to be there."

And yes, there it was, like liquid fire running through him, as if someone was pumping his bloodstream with firewhiskey. He was beginning to see orange.

"Your hands were screaming no, but your palms were dry."

He could no longer feel the cold air around him, nor the sharp snow digging into the other palm that held him steady against the ground. And now he really couldn't see, as if someone had shot down the moon and plunged the courtyard into pitch blackness, punctured by a voice that wasn't really Lovegood and a cacophony of scarlet and crimson.

"—And your blood was singing to me, and mine was singing back."

And, suddenly, she let go.

Severus' world returned to him in a rush of cool blue moonlight. He blinked several times, trying to dispel the last of the heady orange that had inexplicably clouded his vision.

When, finally, he was able to see properly again, he saw that Lovegood was bringing her hands away from where they had been wiping at her eyes. A painful, annoying, and uncharacteristic pang of concern shot through him. Was she crying? The coward in him didn't want to find out; he was utterly useless at comforting distraught young females.

And knowing that someone like Lovegood was crying . . . well, it put an unpleasant taste in his mouth. People like Luna Lovegood shouldn't cry. Ever. It was unnatural. It made his stomach turn.

Seconds of quiet stretched between them, nothing but the faint call of owls in the distance and each of their breaths, out of sync but still weaving together unfathomably. Severus kept his gaze trained on the ground, unwilling to look at the girl next to him.

After a few more moments, there was a soft clinking at his side—the sound of the moonstones being moved around in their glass jar.

"This memorial is supposed to be for the people that died here at Hogwarts—that died because of Voldemort. But I made a stone for my father as well. Is alright, do you think?"

He closed his eyes. "Yes. Yes, that is right."

He heard a soft metallic scraping, the sound of her using the shovel to dig another hole for a stone—to dig another grave.

"I want to thank you, Professor."

His head was beginning to ache, and a tightness was forming in the back of his throat. He swallowed uncomfortably. What the bloody hell for?

More scraping as she dug the half-frozen dirt. "If it hadn't been you . . . if someone else had grabbed me . . . I'm not sure I would have felt as safe as I did."

The words were flying out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "You are a damn fool, Lovegood, if you managed to feel safe in the middle of a Deatheater raid, much less in Malfoy Manor—and if that sense of security was because of me, then you are as daft and demented as your peers say!"

He never dreamed that he would ever see Luna Lovegood's face grown stiff with anything but sleep; however, when she looked at him now, there was definite disapproval in her countenance.

"I may be a fool . . . but at least I am a fool who sees things plainly." More quietly, she added: "Don't ever look me in the eye unless you want to see yourself exactly as you are."

Her words sent a chill down his spine, but he ignored it, spitting at her: "Indeed. You couldn't have possibly known—I had the entire wizarding world believing me to be a traitor of the worst kind—and you claim that you believed in my innocence, even in my darkest hour? I think not."

She turned her face away from him, concentrating again on her work. A single milky stone was plucked from the collection and slipping into the small hole she had created. Though she was no longer looking at him, he could discern that something in her expression changed; the faint displeasure that should have been magnified by his petulant words was now nowhere to be seen. Her face was cool and smooth as the surface of a rippleless lake.

"I would never presume anything about your innocence, sir. But I did believe in you. I still do."

As if she had deflated him somehow, he let out a tired half-sigh. "Why?" he asked wearily.

"I believe what I want to, because I want to," she replied simply, patting the earth smooth. "Something doesn't have to be evident, or corporeal for me to believe in it. Do you know anything about gods, Professor?"

"I have never met a single one, only mortals that like to play-act."

"Well . . . it's like that. No one has proof, but plenty believe anyway."

"There is a substantial difference between the time-honored worship of omnipotent beings and unsupported, blind belief in criminals—or belief in spontaneously dreamed-up denizens."

She gave an infuriating shrug. "Well, all the same. I just wanted to say thank you."

The urge to scream at her was so tempting he found himself almost literally biting his tongue. Inane, sentimental, ludicrous little. . . . Brat. He ground his teeth. He didn't deserve her thanks. Or her tolerance. Or anything she was so carelessly throwing at him. It made him angry beyond comprehension. . . .

And, at the same time, he felt grateful.

"You are . . . welcome."

Sneaking a glance at him, she flashed him one of her trademark sweet-dreamy smiles. He realized it had been a long time since anyone had genuinely smiled at him.

Picking up the jar and hand shovel, she held the latter out to him and set the former between them. "Would you like to help?" she asked.

Wordless, he took the shovel from her.

 

//

 

They stayed in that barren courtyard for another half-hour, burying (or "planting") the inscribed moonstones where Luna designated them. Though it was indiscernible to Severus himself, there was evidently some sort of order to where the stones were placed. She told him about the spell she used to inscribe the moonstones—a Naming charm, an old piece of magic used to enchant inanimate objects. It was tiresome work, and took quite some preparation, so she typically created ten to twelve stones per week. She had managed to make fifteen this week, which put the total in the courtyard at about forty-six.

"A little less than two-hundred to go!" she remarked cheerily as she put her tools back in the satchel.

He gifted her with a slight thinning of his lips that may or may not have been his attempt to smile. Minerva was right: the girl really was touched in the head.

And he'd shove his foot in his mouth before he actually said so, but it was rather endearing, in a way.

Upon leaving the courtyard and entering the more insulated, and therefore less chilly, castle, he insisted on escorting her all the way to her dorms. For her part, Lovegood made no objection, and they walked together in silence, Severus slowing his long strides so that she could keep pace.

As they came to a stop by the door to the Ravenclaw common room, Severus found himself itching to say something. After Lovegood answered the riddle and the door opened, he broke the comfortable silence between them.

"Ms. Lovegood."

She turned to him where she stood in the entry-way, cheeks still pink from the cold. Her blonde eyebrows shifted in question.

"I . . ."

As his words died in his throat, he realized that his courage failed him for one reason: he wanted to apologize. He sincerely wished to tell her that he was contrite—for everything. For being such a crass and insolent prat, for yelling at her, for calling her a fool. He was sorry for taking her from her home and destroying it in the process, for taking her away from her father, for not being able to stop him from dying. He was sorry for interrogating her at Malfoy Manor. For having to leave her there and return to school. He, Severus Snape, who hadn't sincerely apologized to anyone for anything in decades, wished very desperately to tell Luna Lovegood that he was, indeed, sorry.

But he couldn't. So instead, he told her something that was even more difficult to say.

"Thank you."

Even though she was mostly cast in shadow, he could see the outline of her smile in the darkness.

"You're welcome, Professor."

 

//

 

The next morning, whilst he was milling about in his chambers, Minerva sent word in the form of a house-elf that she needed to speak with him. Having already resigned himself to the particular conversation that would no doubt ensue, he accepted, and spent the rest of the morning preparing himself. Minerva would have plenty of questions for him, but he had some of his own to pose to her.

It was high-time he made an actual inquiry about Ms. Luna Lovegood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: So, thusfar . . . Severus is torn and recovering. Luna has insomnia and a scary side. We'll find out more about that later, I assure you. McGonagall reveals all. 
> 
> where it says "a knut in diameter", I mentally equate knuts with pennies (copper), and therefore view them as the same size.


	4. Oyster

Via her height-challenged messenger, Minerva had asked that he come by her office at exactly three fifteen in the afternoon. So Severus, having little else to do, decided to reorganize his personal lab and potions library which, for some infuriating reason, Slughorn had been allowed access to these last three semester whilst Severus had been the DADA Professor and then briefly headmaster. The work was relaxing, though it did seem to some degree, rather pointless; more and more often, he couldn't see himself remaining at Hogwarts much longer, much less spend one more iota of his time teaching. Reorganizing something that would, most likely, be at the disposal of some other nitwit next fall felt futile.

But, as pointed out, it was relaxing, and it was a passable way to while the hours. Considering how thoroughly the overweight, bug-eyed little troll of a man had managed to bollox everything up, by two-thirty that afternoon Severus found himself only half-way done repairing the damage (and that was just in his lab; he hadn't even touched his personal library yet). Nevertheless, he halted his progress, took a quick shower, and, at two o-five was heading out of the dungeons, and towards the headmaster's office.

By the time he had given the gargoyle the password (""), trudged up the winding staircase to the head's office, and entered the large circular room, the great clock that hung above and behind the headmaster's desk read precisely a few seconds to the appointed time.

Severus took a moment to look around the room; it hadn't change much since Dumbledore's passing. In his own brief stint as Headmaster, Severus had been loathe to move around any of the old man's things unless completely necessary, and didn't see the point in moving any of his own effects in. for one, it had felt sacrilegious; two, when he took the position, he didn't really expect to survive the next two years.

And Minerva, though her position was (more or less) permanent, had not changed much either. All the old fool's bits and bobs were still whirring and buzzing about; a deep purple over-robe hung from the coat-stand; Fawkes was perched behind the desk as always, gleaning his scarlet feathers and giving Severus a level glance or two; there was even an ancient bowl of lemon drops sitting on a dust-covered coffee table.

Sensing his presence, Minerva, who had been hunched over her desk, looked up at him, expression tired. "Severus," she greeted, bringing a hand up to remove her glasses.

Severus spared a glance to the clock again: right on time, to the second. "Do you mean to intimidate me with the use of quarter-hours?" (1)

She gave him a weary half-smile. "I wouldn't dream of trying to intimidate you," she responded. Then she sighed. "Sorting through all of this is taking so much time. I just had a meeting with the board of governors, and I had to have this proposal checked over and sent out by tonight— and then I wasn't sure how long this would last—"

"I understand. Was there something specific that you wanted to see me about?"

Shuffling a stack of papers and setting them aside, Minerva nodded. "Yes, actually." She gave a nod to the chair opposite her. "Do sit."

With minute reluctance, he complied, settling into the chair, trying not to remember the last time someone had asked him to take a seat here.

Steepling her fingers (in a very Albus-like manner, Severus noted), Minerva peered at him. "You are aware that, despite having all charges against you dropped thanks to Potter—"

Severus bit his lip to keep from scoffing.

"—the Ministry still requires that you make a formal statement regarding your part as a spy, and all that was asked of you both by the Dark Lord and Albus during the war."

Inwardly, he groaned. "Yes, I am aware."

"well, I've been thinking . . . Kingsley and the Aurors have quite enough on their hands as it is. I highly doubt that you want to spend several hours' time at the Ministry giving your account as well as answering any other questions they might have. Personally, I would like to hear what you have to say, and I doubt you would want to tell your entire bit twice. Lastly, there are still quite a few reporter bugs inside the ministry, and I can only imagine what would happen if they got wind of you. So, I've come up with a solution."

Curiosity piqued, Severus watched as Minerva bent over to reach under the desk and retrieve a small, wooden box. It was covered in inscriptions from what he recognized as the Theban alphabet.

"I had thought of asking you to extract your memories for a pensieve, but I decided that might be too invasive. I found this among Ablus's effects. It's a vocal recorder."

As if to demonstrate, she reached into a side drawer of the desk and took out a perfectly-shaped slab of hematite, also with inscriptions. This she placed into a small slit at the top of the box. Picking up her want, she tapped the box twice and muttered something under her breath. The inscriptions flared bright blue before dulling to a mute glow, the entire box seemed to hum quietly.

"You will speak, and your words will be recorded into the stone. You'll have to go in person to the Ministry to hand it over—they will probably also ask you to sign a few release forms—but this will save you some trouble. That is, if you are comfortable with this arrangement . . . Severus?"

Without thinking, he had tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting relief wash through him. at the sound of his name, he snapped his eyes open. "Yes. I—this is acceptable."

She gave him a small smile and sat back. "Right then. Whenever you are ready."

There were a few beats of silence as Severus took the time to draw in several controlled breaths. Unconsciously, he rubbed his forearm where the mark lay, no longer a black tattoo but an angry burn-scar, coiled in his skin, never to fade completely. He cast his mind back, back through the years, back to where this mess first began, with a childhood friend and a the gravest mistake of his life, with the cruelest master he would ever have, with the wisest, kindest friend he ever had the privilege of serving.

He opened his mouth.

 

//

 

It seemed to him that the entire story had taken years to tell, but, according to the analog clock, it had only been an hour and a half.

It had been easier to recount everything than he ever thought it would be. He let himself talk, simply stating facts and events as they had happened; he had kept his voice level and sure, pausing every now and then to collect his thoughts. Minerva had been mercifully silent throughout most of it, though Severus was fairly sure that neither the archivist nor the Auror that would be going through the file would miss Minerva's sniffling as Severus talked about Ablus' final months.

She was more or less dry-eyed now, and putting a few preservation spells on the slab of hematite before wrapping it in brown packing paper. Tying it off with some twin, she stamped it with the Headmaster's official seal, and passed it to him across the table.

"There you are. Just report to the Auror department Friday at four, sign your papers, and you will be done with it."

He reached across the desk and accepted the small parcel, turning it over in his long, elegant hands. "Thank you," he nodded

She cleared her throat, still trying to get a hand over her emotions. "Well, that about sums that up, I think. I do have a question for you though."

Severus nodded, indicating her to continue.

Minerva gave him a tiny, wry smile, eyes still red. "I realize you have only been conscious for a few days. However, I feel the need to ask you . . . what are your plans?"

He looked at her. "Plans?" he repeated.

She nodded, expression growing more business-like. "Yes. Plans for your future."

"Ah." A pause.

She steepled her fingers again, peering at him speculatively. "Let me make it clear first that you are not obligated to anything. If you wish to remain at Hogwarts on staff, that is your call. But . . . well, frankly, I never got the impression that you liked teaching—"

"Not in the slightest—"

"Which brings me to another point. If you are not intent on teaching, how soon do you wish to leave—again," she added quickly, sincerely, "there is no obligation to do anything right away. I simply need to know—Pomona's cousin has volunteered to take over Potions classes since Slughorn has disappeared."

Severus nodded. He vaguely remembered Leander Sprout being more than competent at the subject.

Minerva watched him consider her words. "If you need more time, you are free to stay," she told him with great assurance. "Actually, the school could still use your skill at the present: Leander is talented, but he doesn't have the time to attend to his classes, care for his family, and restock Poppy's medical supplies—"

"I would find it most agreeable to be given more time here in exchange for whatever services I can offer the school," he responded, a bit too quickly he thought, but alas. He was relieved not to have to make any decisions right away. Truth be told, he hadn't thought about his future.

He was still getting over the shock of surviving.

Minerva smiled kindly at him, and he grimaced inwardly. He could spot a more sentimental, and iron-fisted Dumbledore in the making, and he was glad he wouldn't be around to see such an incarnation at its prime.

"Well," she said, "if that is all, you are free to—"

Suddenly remembering his earlier decision, Severus opened his mouth, quickly interjecting, "Just one moment, Minerva. I have something to ask you, if you have the time."

Twisting around to glance at the clock behind her, Minerva nodded, her expression somewhat surprised. "Oh. . . well, of course. Go ahead.

Knowing that this was going to sound strange as all hell (especially coming from him), but determined to go through with it anyway, he pushed the words out of his mouth. "I found a student wandering about the halls last night. Perhaps you know her: Ms. Luna Lovegood."

The surprised look on her face didn't give an inch, making Severus feel slightly uncomfortable. "Well, yes—she was the one who found you."

"Yes, I know." And he actually didn't know if he quite forgave her for that. "I found her meandering down the halls late last night and she did not seem . . . quite well," he finished lamely. He wasn't sure how to tell Minerva that the girl in question had suddenly gone batshit on him for a few seconds whilst they were standing in the freezing cold of a small-scale graveyard.

Minerva took his words into consideration, but responded wearily. "Ms. Lovegood is a strange one, Severus," as if that was all there was to it.

But that wasn't all. Lovegood may have been a nut, but there was something else at work here, and he would eat her spare raddish earring if that was normal for her.

"I am aware," he replied levelly, "but this was different. That," he added, "and she lead me to believe that traipsing around the castle at all hours of the night was a regular occurrence for her."

Minerva stared at him for a moment, and Severus was sorely reminded of the many times he had been summoned to her office as a student (usually to be asked about hexing Potter or Black, no less). Finally, she blinked, and brought a hand to her temple to massage the spot.

"I suppose. . ." she said slowly, "I suppose you are aware that I have been submitting the whole of the school to a mental evaluation by some volunteers from St. Mungo's—students and staff?"

The words were flying out of his mouth before he could help it. "If you dare—"

She held up her other hand, half order to stop, half in defense. "I had thought about it, but no, you have not and will not be evaluated. My point is that when Ms. Lovegood was evaluated, her results were . . . troubling."

Severus was silent. He waited.

"When given a verbal question, they concluded she was, for all points and purposes, quite mad. I believe the common Muggle-Wizard term is 'schizophrenic'. But she had several people vouch for her, claiming that she was simply odd."

He felt the small beginnings of a smirk pull at his lips, thinking about Lovegood answering the questions of St. Mungo's personnel. He dashed it away.

"However, a magical scan revealed a more troubling diagnosis. According to the young man who ran the tests, Ms. Lovegood suffers from what he called PTSD: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Severus felt his face go blank.

"What happened to her?"

Minerva closed her eyes and took another deep breath. "You are aware that she spent some time in Malfoy Manor?"

Severus nodded, an ugly mixture of dread and guilt seeping into his stomach. "Yes. I brought her there and conducted an interrogation."

Minerva nodded. "Yes, she told us about the questioning. She said you were more lenient than Mr. Malfoy. She also said you looked very tired. . . ."

Severus nodded, remembering the scene. He hadn't screamed at Lovegood—Lucius did plenty of that on his own—merely used that low, threatening voice he often employed in the classroom. And, through everything, she had sat there, silent, tightly bound to her chair, watching them solemnly. Even when Lucius struck her, she never spoke a word.

"Well, apparently she was there for a several weeks before Potter, Granger, and Weasley were brought there. During her stay, she told me. . . ." Minerva's lips pursed, and her words died.

Severus felt his hands curl by his sides. "Told you what?"

"She told me—quite matter of factly—that Lucius had . . . entertained some company and . . . they used her as sport."

Something very heavy and leaden dropped in his stomach. Suddenly, he felt as though he could scarcely breathe.

". . . sport?"

 

//

 

What Minerva had to say about Luna Lovegood wasn't pretty. Not by a longshot.

Severus himself had only been at Malfoy Manor for four days: the first, before the raid on the Rook house; the second, the day of the raid; and the third and fourth, the days Luna Lovegood was interrogated.

Unable to stay longer and unable to do anything more for her, he had left Lovegood in Lucius' "care" and returned to Hogwarts. He remembered feeling rather uneasy about leaving that girl there—she was so unresponsive, so apathetic, it had enraged Lucius to no end during the actual interrogation. Despite Lucius' cruelty towards the girl during her questioning, Severus knew Lucius well enough to assume that he would not torment her further. Lucius Malfoy was cruel to a fault, but not sadistic like other Deatheaters. If previous experiences were to be trusted, Lucius would do little more than ignore her; he might starve her a bit, but other than that, he would inflict no real harm upon her.

It shamed him to admit as much now, but at that time, Severus had not the presence of mind to think she would be in any serious danger. He had left the manor with this reassuring thought leavening his mind. It had not occurred to him that Lucius might put his prisoner at the disposal of another.

Or, as was the case others.

Luicus Malfoy had, by that point, lost most if not all of his family's dignity and credibility as faithful servants to the Dark Lord; thus, he, his kin, and his assets were at the disposal of more esteemed members of Lord Voldemort's motley crue. As such, Malfoy Manor tended to be a port for Deatheaters; now that one could simply waltz in unannounced and expect Lucius to fully accommodate them, many took up the opportunity to do just that.

It was in this way that Lucius found himself settled with a party of Deatheaters hiding out after a rather vicious raid. And, when several of them began making advances upon Narcissa (and even Draco), Lucius did the only thing that it was still in his power to do:

Provide alternative entertainment.

He had kept his eyes deliberately open as Minerva recounted the events as described by Luna—and later corroborated by Draco Malfoy who voluntarily stood in several trials as a witness. He kept his gaze focused on the clock behind her, knowing that, if he closed his eyes, he would not be able to stop the images from flying at him. . . .

". . . tortured, for several hours . . . raped repeatedly . . ."

And, after revealing all this, the batty girl had refused to speak another word about it. The volunteers from Mungo's attempted time and again to get her to open up about it, but after the stale account she gave them she said no more. Apparently, she had taken to fleeing the medi-wizards' presence whenever she spotted them.

Once Minerva had finished, Severus could do little more than stare—and not at her, either. His eyes were still firmly glued to the clock. He'd watched the minute hand creep by three roman numerals without looking away.

Minerva watched him, searching his wan face for some sign of thought or emotion. After a moment, she made a quiet addendum:

"None of her peers know, but Draco. Actually, he is the only one she has been talking to, of late. She seems rather fond of him. . . ."

Severus said nothing. His ears were ringing faintly.

"I've queried her other friends . . . and despite being elusive, she seems to be behaving normally—normally for her, anyway. Ms. Lovegood has always been a bit . . ."

"Touched."

He was surprised to hear himself finish her sentence. So was she; she blinked at him in astonishment, wariness soon surfacing on her wizened face.

Severus saw her open her mouth out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps she thought she should say more, but he, personally, had heard enough.

With more force than necessary, he rose from his chair, pushing it back with a screech. He looked down at Minerva, who was still staring at him with her mouth partially open. He gave her a swift nod.

"Thank you, Minerva, for your time." He bent slightly, snatching the brown-wrapping encase slab from her desk. "I shan't impose further: good day."

And, without another word, he whirled around, black robes flaring, and stalked out of her office.

 

//

 

He lay wide awake that night, listening to all the subtle noises of the castle. The wind whipping through the stone turrets and towers had always been so comforting to him before, and he often found himself lulled to sleep by the sound. Now, it only agitated him.

There was no doubt in his mind that Luna Lovegood was out again tonight, frolicking about in her ridiculously thin green jumper and bright yellow high-tops. She would be there again in her miniature graveyard, making her enchanted moonstones inscribed with the names of the deceased. She would sit there in the cold, not caring, humming to herself, smiling that damnable dreamy smile. Too numb to feel the pain of the cold or think about anything but her task. And tomorrow, the circles under her eyes would be even darker.

He should go to her.

But he did not get up from his bed. Nor the next night.

He simply lie there, thinking, and wishing that he had the strength to face her.

 

//

 

Remembering that Minerva had told him that the Ministry would be expecting him on Friday at four, Severus decided that he would spend the day in London before heading over. Since it seemed that he would be spending his time between his own research and brewing for Poppy, a trip to Diagon Alley was in order. Normally –and more so now—he abhorred the idea of going out in public. However, the Alley would be fairly unpopulated this time of year, and it was definitely cold enough to wear his most obscuring cloak. And anyone who did see him would most likely have the good sense not to say anything (to his face) and continue on their way.

And, by good fortune, he actually did manage his shopping trip without major incident. A few people recognized him, but merely nodded in his direction and kept walking; thus, it was a fairly un-heckled Severus Snape that walked into the Ministry of Magic, purchases tucked in his pocket with an Undetectable Extension charm. He even made it to the Auror Department without a fuss.

But it couldn't all be peaches and keenies.

In retrospect, he blamed it on Kingsley. The man had insisted upon giving him his Order of Merlin, First Class, in person, and had taken several minutes to reach Severus where he waited in the Auror Department. Truthfully, Severus was waiting for the archivist to analyze the memory slab and prepare a release form for it—but Severus suspected the little chit was taking extra time doing so, having been the one to tell Severus that the Minister would be coming down to give him his accolade. Perhaps she had seen the Potions Master's impatience, or perhaps she wanted to fawn over the Minister (Kingsley was, after all, elegantly handsome and the most eligible Minister of Magic in about two centuries). Either way, after Kingsley had finished "catching up" with Severus and bestowing his Order of Merlin, it was nearly five o'clock. He'd been at the Ministry and hour, which was definitely long enough for someone to catch wind of his presence.

As he made his way down to the main lobby, he readied himself. The most he would likely face was a group of five or six brave (or suicidal) reporters and maybe a mob of murmurs.

He realized only too late that he grossly underestimated his new celebrity.

Needless to say, the Severus Snape that exited the Ministry that day was decidedly much worse for wear.

 

//

 

It was around five-thirty when a sharp pop was heard on the edge of the Hogwarts grounds as Severus apparated before the main gates.

He stood there for a moment, fuming in the blazing cold, seething so intensely that one wouldn't have been surprised to see smoke coming from him. His ears were still ringing from all the shouting, and despite the surrounding dim of sunset, he squinted his hurting eyes.

Thirty minutes. It had taken a bloody half hour from his exiting the lift to make his way across the main floor of the ministry until he could reach a grate to the outside. Thirty minutes of wading through hundreds of reporters and camera-men, people shouting questions at him left and right, cornering him, trying to get him to respond. He snarled at them and their questions, practically growled at one man who had tried to grab Severus by the sleeve of his robe (at the look Severus gave him and the sound he emitted, the reporter quickly let go, face pale as a sheet). Thirty minutes of insane queries, some of them despicably romantic, some of them dragging what was left of his dignity through the gutter. And during all of this, no help—absolutely none whatsoever—from on-looking Ministry officials.

He couldn't remember if he'd cursed at any of the reporters. But he was certainly cursing now.

As the gates opened to admit him, he drew in a sharp, irritated breath, muttering darkly to himself as he stormed across the darkening grounds. Storm clouds loomed overhead, and somewhere in the distance, thunder answered his own rumbling voice.

"Of all the asinine—utterly ridiculous pomp and circumstance—I could strangle that little cretin—hero? pah, hero!"

He was walking so quickly he nearly stumbled, but his pace wouldn't allow for any snags, and he kept walking, anger sloughing off him in waves as he approached the castle, following the path that would take him by the lake. He brought a hand to his left fore-arm, where his robe—his good winter robe, no less—had been torn by the talons of some cougar of a woman with impossibly blonde hair and lavender lacquered nails.

"—little chit," he growled, "if I had half a mind to cast Unforgivables, she would be licking her own excrement off the lobby floor—"

"Respectfully, I'm not sure they would let you keep your Order of Merlin if you put a reporter under the Imperius, sir."

Severus' feet screeched to a halt of their own accord. He whipped around, eyes scouring the lake and the grounds surrounding him, looking for the source of the voice. That starry, surreal, all-too-familiar voice—

"It's very lucky that Voldemort's snake didn't manage to mangle your throat completely," and as Severus turned to locate the voice, he found himself facing a tree to his left. He stared. A tree. A tree was talking to him. wonderful.

"Yes, rather lucky. You do have such a lovely voice," the tree said. Only, no, it wasn't the tree, because as Severus drew closer, walking up under its expansive dark emerald canopy, he looked up to find none other than Luna Lovegood sitting among its lower branches.

Smiling, she peered down at him. She was wearing her school clothes today, traditional grey jumper, blue and black tie, tactfully tucked pleated grey skirt—and, in stark contrast to all of this, those obnoxious yellow shoes. Her wand was tucked precariously behind her left ear, hair loose and wild as usual.

At the sight of her, his stomach did a strange series of acrobatic tricks, making him feel vaguely ill. He tried to keep his mind in the moment but, inevitably and of a will of its own, it wandered back to what Minerva had revealed to him in the Headmaster's office. It was strange to see her smiling so at him, knowing what he did. Strange because smiling seemed the most natural expression for her, because it was hard to imagine her any other way, difficult to see what she might have looked like in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor as they—

"You've got the most peculiar expression on your face, sir. You look a bit mad," she tilted her head, looking down at him. Her yellow-sneakered shoes swung back and forth where they hung.

He swallowed with difficulty. "Perhaps 'bewildered' might be a better descriptive," he replied drily. "I am not accustomed to finding students nesting in trees."

"I'm not nesting, but it sounds like a fine idea. I'd love some owlets."

"If you had owlets, you might not sleep at all."

"But I don't."

"I know," the words came out heavily, and he succumbed to the urge to close his eyes and bring a hand briefly to pass over his forehead. He could just feel the wrinkles blooming. . . .

"Something the matter with your head, sir?"

You are, he almost said. Instead, he offered a mildly sneering, "Don't be silly, girl," and reopened his eyes wearily.

Luna Lovegood continued to peer down at him, her head cocked sideways. As he glanced back up at her, he saw a lively, ribbon-like gold earring dangling from her ear. Though metallic-looking, it waved easily in the slight breeze, almost blending into her hair. Pausingly, her small nostrils flared slightly as she inhaled.

"You've been to the Ministry," she told him matter of factly.

If it weren't that his jaw was still so tight from irritation, he might have gone a wee bit slack-jawed. "How did you—"

"I can smell it. Their floo—it smells funny," she offered. "Not bad, though—like oranges. What for?"

He could only imagine the confounded look on his face right now. " 'What for' what?" My, my, did that ever sound intelligent.

"What were you at the Ministry for?"

"To give a statement," he said dimissively.

"oh. But then why are you in such a tizzy?"

"I am not in a tizzy," he ground out, "I am irritated."

"At who?"

"The press."

Her mouth formed a pretty 'O' of understanding. "I see. Harry's been having a rowdy time with them as well. You just missed him, actually."

"How unfortunate."

She continued as if he hadn't uttered a word. "He was just wandering around the grounds. He stopped by to have a chat. He asked about you again."

"I care so much."

"I told him so. He didn't seem like he was going to give up though. He really wants to talk to you."

"And say what, precisely?" Severus growled up the tree. Merlin, he must look like an idiot, fighting with a plant.

Luna shrugged. "I did ask him. He just gave me this funny look, as if he hadn't actually thought about it. I don't think he really knows." She paused, taking her gaze away from him and looking through the branches, towards the lake. "What time is it, Professor?"

He let out a slow breath, trying to diffuse some of his agitation. "Nearly six, I would think."

A look of surprised flashed across her face, something he hadn't seen before; she was usually so tuned out and zen-like that next to nothing seemed to faze her. The slight astonishment that flitted cross her pretty features seemed quite out of place.

As he watched, her mouth pursed slightly, and she tapped a slim finger on a tree branch contemplatively. Then, she nodded. "Time flies," she said softly.

He raised an eyebrow. He was starting to get that apprehensive, hair-raising feeling that she seemed so adept at instilling in him; he found himself shifting uncomfortably.

"Does it?" he asked, keeping his voice level as possible. "How long have you been here?"

"Oh . . . since two. It just didn't seem like that long," she sighed slightly.

He tried and failed to hide his incredulity. "You've been here for four hours?"

She nodded slowly. "mm. Yes. I suppose."

"Why?"

"I was only going to hide up here for a bit," she said airily. "Just until those boys left."

He couldn't explain the feeling that seared through him, cold and jagged. It was like fear, but it tasted different. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Boys?

"What boys?" and, bugger all, even he could hear that sting of sharp—dare he say it—concern in his voice. He peered up into the tree, trying to put on a stern visage. "Lovegood, come down from there."

She looked at him warily. "If it's all the same, sir, I think I'll stay."

"It isn't all the same—do you expect to spend the night up there?"

She gave a shrug so nonchalant he found it simply infuriating. "Maybe," she said seriously.

A gust of wind slapped sharply into his side, and he gave in involuntary shiver. The sun was setting in the distance, and it was getting colder by the minute. The sky above looked positively ominous, and he could have sworn he felt a droplet or two of icy rain. He would be damned if he just let her sit out here.

"Come down," he commanded, "or I will bring you down myself."

"Going to climb up here with me, professor?"

He ignored the sly mirth in her question. "I just might—and I am not your professor."

"No. No you aren't." Taking her eyes away from him, she turned her head about like an owl, looking in every direction.

"I suppose it's alright now," she said, eternally glazed, bright blue eyes gleaning the darkening grounds. "I don't see them anywhere."

Before he could offer her any assistance, there was a scratching of bark, and a snapping of twigs, and she all but tumbled out of the tree, landing in a cat-like crouch on the ground. She stood up, shaking the snow from her bare hands. He surveyed her, taking in her skirt and her thin grey jumper, noting the goosebumps on her pale, slender legs.

"Do you take particular care not to dress for the weather?" he asked dryly. "Where is your cloak?"

She shrugged, re-tucking her wand more securely behind her ear. "They took it when I was running from them. The boys, that is."

Ah. And there goes the anger. It bubbled in his stomach, and he narrowed his eyes. "Who were they?"

"Just boys. Erm . . . well, one of them was Goyle. I didn't recognize the other two."

"And why were they chasing you?" he arched a brow.

Lovegood, didn't look at him, instead directly her gaze towards the ground almost shyly. As he watched, a small, curious smile wrought itself upon her pink lips. She spoke her answer softly, directing it at the ground:—

"Sport."

Unconsciously, his hands balled into fists. He felt as though he might throw up.

And then she shivered, shaking with her whole body, and the feeling dissappated immediately, to be replaced by a strange sensation he had yet to name.

Without thinking, he unfastened his cloak from his shoulders and stepped towards her. She looked up in mild surprise, her bright blue eyes widening as he brought the cloak around her small shoulders. She stood very still as he fixed the clasp in the front, making sure it stayed in place. He could feel her breath, warm and soft on his hands.

Finishing, he lowered his hands, and she looked up at him, expression all but unreadable, a faint flush in her cheeks. "Thank you," she said, so quietly he almost did not hear.

He nodded solemnly, black eyes taking her in. "You are welcome," he returned. "Are you ready to return to the castle?"

Smiling, she nodded.

 

//

 

They trudged along in silence, the only sound being their feet grating against both the stone of the pathway and the slushy snow. There was a faint slithering sound of his cloak trailing along the ground behind Luna—it was so large on her, she had a train of about a foot— and he could swear that, every so often, he heard something on her person jingle.

Somehow, without him noticing, she had snaked her hand to catch onto his arm, and walked close to his side, holding onto him as though she thought she might fall or get lost. When he noticed, he said nothing, nor did he shake her off; it felt oddly comforting.

The path they were taking came up beside the lake and, as they approached, Severus felt a slight tug on his arm as Luna's steps slowed. Looking to his companion, he saw that her attention had been captured by the large, black mass of water, fey gaze scouring the surface with wonder.

"Do you swim much, professor?" she asked, out of the blue.

He nearly snorted, but turned it into a scoff instead. "It's the middle of winter, Ms. Lovegood."

"But do you know how to swim?"

"I can swim," he bit out, mind casting back to the several instances in which, despite his presumed inability to navigate water, he had been forced into a cold, dark, swimming lesson whose consolation prize was getting back to Hogwarts alive.

Luna shrugged, unperturbed by his slightly caustic tone. "I meant nothing by it, sir. You just seemed like the type of boy who never learned to swim. That's all." And then (whilst he tried to wrap his mind around a girl less than half his age calling him a "boy") she did come to a complete stop; she turned her body towards the lake, and gave a small sigh. "I wish I had learned. It seems like such fun."

He disliked the way her hand slipped from his arm, but he said nothing of it. He merely folded his arms, and observed her as she moved closer to the water's edge, full of cautious curiosity.

"I would not know about fun," he replied as she crouched down, pulling her wand out from her ear. As he watched, she tapped the water and a small, crystalline flower appeared on the surface, floating on the surface. Using the tip of her wand, she pushed it out further into the water.

Drawing his attention from her, Severus looked to the west. The sun was nearly gone, and it was considerably colder; even he, in his customary bundles of black robes, was beginning to feel the chill. The faint smell of oncoming rain wafted across the grounds, and he could even now feel the prickling of a light drizzle. Judging by the baleful-looking clouds, it wasn't likely to remain a drizzle for long. He turned, opening his mouth to draw her away from the water and back onto the path towards the school—

Splash.

He didn't see what happened. He wasn't fast enough.

But, when he turned back to face her, Luna Lovegood was gone.

With sudden frenetic energy, he twisted and turned his body, looking in every which direction for his would-be companion, but she was nowhere to be seen. His cloak lay in a puddle of fabric on the ground where she had been crouching, and the black water directly in front of the spot was rippling sinisterly.

It took all but two seconds for arctic-cold dread to seep through him. Panic seized his flesh, and his heart started beating in his ears.

Like a dumb animal, he looked around again, part of himself trying not to believe what the other half knew indisputably. When again he saw no sign of her, he looked back to the quavering black water.

Merlin's balls. 

It had to have been the stupidest thing he'd ever done. But he didn't give pause to consider it. He just did it.

He threw himself in after her.

Another great splash succeeded his leap, spraying black water in every direction as the water swallowed him in one great gulp. After he'd disappeared, the lake's surface quavered violently at the intrusion. However, as seconds ticked by without further disruption, the water began to calm save for the rain which was now steadily falling upon the grounds.

A minute passed. All was quiet.

Then, without warning, there was a sudden rush upward of water as a giant coiled tentacle rose and broke the surface yet again; as it uncurled towards the water's edge, it dropped a large, black, sopping something in the shallows.

As soon as the beast dropped him on solid ground (well, solid enough, he thought, feeling his hands and boots slide around in the muck), he pushed himself up to a stand. His head broke the water, and he gasped for air, lungs feeling ragged. He stood still for a moment, gasping and hacking up water.

"Fuck," he rasped, using the hand not braced at his protesting chest to push his sopping hair from his face. "Bloody hell, Lovegood—"

His eyes widened.

Lovegood.

He looked frantically around himself, scouring the waist-high, icy, murky water. He stuck his hands in, fingers splayed and scissoring through the water—

His left hand tangled in something soft floating in the water. Twisting around sharply to look, he could make out a few silky strands of blonde hair. . . .

He plunged his arms down further, and he brought himself back down into the water, face seizing at the chill while his black eyes squinted determinedly, his fingers still wrapped around those blonde locks, leading him to—

There!

He didn't know what limbs he had a hold of. But he yanked them up regardless.

And out of the water again popped Severus Snape—this time with Luna Lovegood in his arms.

He was shivering, his body protesting violently, but he couldn't spare a thought for his own discomfort as he half-dragged, half-carried the small girl to shore. The mud at the lake's bottom seemed to try and suck in his feet, and he staggered several times, nearly losing his grip on her. The girl's arms were thin and slippery under his large, shaking hands, but he held tightly, and he was going to leave bruises, he just knew it—

Finally, the water thinned out, and he was stepping unsteadily onto solid ground.

A few steps away from the water and exhausting kicked; his knees buckled and he fell to them, kneeling in the cold mud. The girl lay supine in front of him, pretty face ghostly pale, too still, much too still, not even bre—

It was indescribable, the feeling that rushed through him as her body spasmed to life, small throat contracting as she choked and spit up water. Automatically, he reached for her, but she rolled to her side, away from him, pressing her mouth into the mud, coughing violently.

His hand found her shoulder, and he squeezed gently, trying not to think about why she jerked at his initial touch. She gave a strangled sound and brought her knees up, curling into fetal position. She was no longer spitting up water but her coughs were becoming more labored and harsh. She was—

She was choking on something.

He shifted his body towards her, preparing to pull out his wand, when she gave a particularly brutal hack, a small white something rolling out of her mouth.

Before he could see what it was, her small hand lashed out and snatched it, fingers curling into a fist that was brought close to her chest. And then, sensing the danger had been expelled, her body went slack of its own accord, and she lay there, curled docile and limp, not moving save to give the occasional shiver.

Disbelief, fatigue, and adrenaline still riddling his entire body, Severus looked down at her in hazy, baffled awe. . . .

At the sound of turbulent water, he shifted his attention immediately from her, whipping his head up so sharply he felt his neck pop. His entire body had tensed, ready to run—but the tension soon faded as he realized the sloshing was only the giant squid, sliding its lonely tentacle back underwater.

The rain was coming down at a steady pace now, gelid and heavy and dismal. There was probably only a difference of a degree or two in temperature that kept it from snowing. Funny, being cold and miserable wasn't nearly as poetic when it was a physical symptom.

Even still, it wasn't the helpless, violent shiver of his own body that made him decided that this had gone on quite long enough.

Giving a heavy sigh that was only internal, Severus knelt down by the small girl on the ground; putting one arm beneath the bend of her knees and the other across the small of her back, he lifted her from the mud. He maneuvered her limp form easily: despite her water-logged clothing she was light, much lighter than he expected. The voice of suspicion rose in his mind, but he beat it back down; there would be time for questions later.

Provided they both didn't contract fatal pneumonia standing out in this din.

Clutching the thin girl close to his chest, he braced himself mentally, and began trudging determinedly through the slush and towards the castle, whose lit windows winked at him through the curtains of rain.

It was only as he crossed the stone courtyard towards the main doors that he realized Luna Lovegood was inexplicably barefoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is a quote from "The Prime of Ms. Jean Brodie"; it's always tickled me.


	5. Pearl

There was nothing that could faze her. Really, there wasn't.

She'd been working at Hogwarts too long for that—more years than she could be bothered to count. She was possibly the most stalwart fixture of the school faculty, having been steady and ever-present even as the line-up of professors changed with a rapidity that was slightly disturbing. And, having been working at Hogwarts as long as she had, Madame Pomfrey had seen more bizarre injuries and incidents than the entire Magical Mishaps and Maladies (MMM) ward at St. Mungo's. Additionally, the presence of one Mr. Harry James Potter ensured that her ward was almost never empty for the past six-odd years. And goodness knows, having the Chosen One at your place of employment certainly brought in a wide variety of bizarre fare. At fifty-seven, she felt as though she had seen everything.

However, she couldn't but admit to a small amount of bewilderment when none other than Severus Snape came blustering through, dripping wet, with an equally drenched unconscious blonde in his arms.

She had been on her way back from the Great Hall, where she had just finished an early dinner; it was rare these days that she was able to get away from the infirmary without having to worry about a patient, so she took to dining the in hall whenever she was able. And, since proclaiming a young Hufflpuff as good as new and shooing him off to class that afternoon, her ward had been uncharacteristically empty. And she had taken opportunity of it to enjoy a nice, relaxed meal.

But, as she had made her way towards the hospital wing once more, she found her relaxation was short-lived. For, approaching with lengthy, agitated strides from the opposite direction was the potions master himself, small blonde cargo in tow.

They reached the door to the wing simultaneously, and Pomfrey must have had some sort of puzzled expression on her face because Severus merely flicked his wet hair back with a jerk of his head and gave a gruff, "Later."

Wordlessly, she opened the door and let him in.

Her curiosity rose even further when it turned out that the girl he had been carrying was none other than Luna Lovegood.

Luna Lovegood who, prior to last month, had absolutely no medical record to speak of, and who now had a rather large file filled with nasty words like "torture", "abuse", "Cruciatus","laceration", "rape", and "trauma". Luna Lovegood who had never been sick a single day in her six years at Hogwarts and who was now on the verge of developing severe pneumonia.

From what she gleaned from Severus' rather hurried explanation, the girl had either fallen or been dragged into the lake, and other than being very cold and wet, she was unharmed. So, Madame Pomfrey had Severus lay her down on a bed, and drew the curtains. She removed the girl's outer clothing, performed a quick drying spell and a general diagnostic for good measure, and dressed her in a plain white hospital gown.

When she drew back the curtain, Severus was still standing there, surprisingly—surprising, because given his usual brusque nature, she'd more than half-expected him to leave once the student was in good hands. But he still stood there, his back turned for added privacy; though at the rustling of the curtain he whipped around, black eyes questioning and . . . dear Merlin, was that _concern?_

"Is she all right?"

Madame Pomfrey tried to keep her face expressionless. "Yes," she heard herself answer. "She will be, at any rate." Then, pointing to the cabinet on the far wall, she asked, "Would you get me one of the comforters from that cabinet? The yellow ones have warming charms on them."

He was half-way across the room before she even finished the sentence, rummaging around for said comforter. Amusedly, Pomfrey busied herself with opening a smaller cabinet on the wall and selecting a pair of potions: one to fight the cold and potential illness, and one to keep the patient lax and drowsy. Judging by the wan look of her face, and the dark purple circles under her eyes, the girl was probably in need of sleep, natural or no.

When Severus returned to where Lovegood was lain, the girl had begun to shift and shiver. Despite being dry, she was still suffering from the effects of the icy lake-water. Immediately, Severus draped the comforter over her, fitting it evenly on either side of the bed. Madame Pomfrey watched in silence.

Once Severus had stepped back, she turned to him and told him, "There is not much we can do for her at the moment, save let her sleep. I do, however, need to administer these," she gestured to the potions on the tray she'd laid out. "If you would help me sit her up to drink them—"

Again, she'd barely finished before Severus was moving around the bed, rolling up his wet shirt-sleeves and placing a slender hand gently on Luna Lovegood's back. He coaxed the half-conscious girl into a sitting position, and Madame Pomfrey wasted no time in gently placing each potion to the girl's lips.

Obediently, Lovegood swallowed, eyes closed, pale throat working to force the concoctions down, hands in fists at her sides. And Severus sat, patiently, one hand still on the small of Lovegood's back, the other on her shoulder. Once she was finished, he laid her down with the same uncharacteristic gentleness as before, bringing the charmed blanket up to her chin and tucking her in, as though she were a young child.

Madame Pomfrey couldn't help but stare, fascinated. This person before her, bending concernedly over this young girl . . . this was not the Potions Master she had grown accustomed to. This was almost a different being entirely—it almost made her suspicious. . . .

Letting the thought go, Madame Pomfrey shook her head. A great deal had changed since the war's outcome, since Severus' story had come to light. He himself had undergone quite a few changes, subtle as some of them were.

This is what she kept repeating to herself as she ushered him off to get dry (there was no way he was walking out of _her_ infirmary looking like a wet cat), as she checked Lovegood's vitals. And she told herself this again when Severus returned from the infirmary's bathroom, clad in a fresh white shirt and black trousers that a house-elf had brought from his rooms, and proceeded, not to leave, but to actually pull up a chair and sit by Lovegood's bed where she lay sleeping and breathing softly.

Interestingly, he did not leave after the first hour, nor the second. And by the third, he himself had fallen asleep in the chair, head and arms resting on the edge of the bed.

At nine-thirty, as Madame Pomfrey doused all but one light in the ward, she looked at the sleeping pair and shook her head to herself.

Well. She was _almost_ unfazed.

 

//

 

He hadn't intended to fall asleep there.

He was, without question, surprised to awake in the twilight hours of the morning, not in his own bed, but slumping partially on a hospital wing substitute. Cracking his eyes open, his brow creased in confusion and he raised himself slowly. _What? How had he_ —

A slight brush of air hitting his cheek made him turn his head.

_Ah. Right._

Sitting up fully, Severus surveyed the girl whose temporary bed he had been borrowing. It was strange that Luna Lovegood asleep wore the same expression as Luna Lovegood awake: dreamy, serene, peaceful.

Then again, he thought idly, letting his eyes pass over her still, delicate features, perhaps it was not that strange.

He sat silently, watching her sleep, her chest rising and falling softly; her eyelids flickered every now and then, the only sign that there was anything going on in her imaginative brain. What did one dream about if one was Luna Lovegood? That might make for an interesting (or baffling) conversation; perhaps he should inquire when she awoke—

Severus stopped in his track mid-thought, shaking his head to himself. How had he gotten to this point? A year ago, the only student he actually paid any mind to was the Scion of Light (aka, the Chosen One, aka Harry Bloody Potter). Not that he didn't care about them (they were, after all, children, and therefore responsible for the shape of the future, even if he did find many of them hopeless and irksome); but it was much easier – and much _wiser_ —not to. As a spy, he had successfully kept himself at an emotional distance from essentially everyone— even, at times, Dumbledore. He had performed his duties, had done what was necessary, and the less feeling he put behind his actions the better and more smoothly operations tended to run.

But he wasn't a spy anymore. Nor was he a teacher. He wasn't _anything_ , really.

As such, who was to say what kind of conduct he should carry? Lovegood had already proved that he could not successfully maintain his usual degree of nastiness now that it wasn't a necessity.

But then again, could anyone be nasty to this girl, knowing what she had been through?

The memory of the night at the memorial flashed across his mind, and he grimaced internally. Goosebumps ran up his arms as he remembered how she had gripped him with her small hand, the way it had burned him. He massaged the spot unconsciously; she had gripped him hard enough to leave a slight bruise, pinprick purple marks where the pads of her fingers had dug into his arm.

And it looked as though he had unintentionally returned the gesture. As he looked again at her sleeping form (Merlin, what he'd give to merely _look_ that peaceful), his gaze was drawn to her left arm, resting outside the comforter. The hospital gown she wore, though terribly over-sized, was short-sleeved, and the hem of the arm rode up nearly to her shoulder. On her exposed upper arm, he saw, even with only a single candle for light, the beginning of a bruise from where he'd hauled her out of the water.

His gaze slid down her pale arm, to her hand, curled into a fist at her side. He frowned unconsciously, remembering the sound of her choking, and the small object she had coughed up. If he thought about it, he didn't remember her ever unclenching her fist; even in sleep, her hand was balled tightly. As if she were still holding it . . . whatever it was.

Without thinking, Severus reached out for her; while on of his hands curled around the top of hers, coaxing the fingers loose, the other snaked beneath her hand, palm open and waiting to catch the small, mud-crusted object that rolled out of her grasp.

A quiet whispering noise made Severus tense. He jerked his attention towards her face—but it was as peaceful as ever, her mouth slightly agape, air escaping it in a low whistle. The girl was still dead to the world.

Reassured, Severus brought his hand—the one holding the small object—closer to him, raising it to the light. The mud was only thinly crusting it, not enough to distort its size; it was small and spherical, no larger than a finger-nail. It reminded him of a marble, but lacked the weight. In the candle-light, he though he could see a gleam through the covering of mud—but what . . .?

He nearly yelped when slim fingers closed around the hand he'd forgotten.

Heart pounding, he looked down, seeing that Luna, in her sleep, had decided his hand made an ample substitute for this small trinket she'd been holding. Severus stared at their hands, intertwined on the hospital bed, hers curled firmly around his. He had been with the intention of returning to his own chambers (because, honestly, there were not many people who wanted to be awoken to the would not wake her.

He contemplated their strange embrace for a moment longer before giving in to a small sigh and settling himself carefully back down in his chair. He would stay. Just for a while longer.

Just until she let go.

When, around four o'clock, he finally made it back to his chambers, he found himself much tosight of _his_ dour mug); but there was little way to pry their hands apart without making a disturbance, and he wasn't sure at this point what would and o agitated to attempt to sleep. A part of him—a very miniscule part—wished he had stayed in the infirm, if only for the soothing feel of Luna's slumbering presence. Which was silly.

So, instead of lying awake in bed and pretending to slumber, he went to his private laboratory to further examine the small object he had taken from the girl.

After washing it in a small basin of water, he found that, after the dirt and grime had been cleaned off, the object was smooth in his fingers. Removing it from the murky water revealed an opaque white surface, not reflective or lacquered but subtly shiny.

There was, of course, only one thing it could be. Its shape, texture, color, weight hardly pointed to anything else.

But that was impossible. Or at least highly unlikely.

Then again, this _was_ Luna Lovegood.

With skeptical, tired eyes, he once again held the small spherical item up to the light of the magical-lantern that hung permanently in his office, adjusting the brightness with a careless wave of his hand. Yes, he decided, it had to be. There was no other stone or substance known to him, magical or ordinary, that had all the qualities possessed by this trinket.

Thinking that he would ask her about it tomorrow—or, at least, later in the day, as it was almost four now—Severus wrapped the object carefully in a small square of velvet and secured it with a piece of twine. He paused before leaving his laboratory, debating on whether or not to rest it on his worktable. But he thought better of it, slipping the makeshift charm into his pocket.

 

//

 

Upon returning to his quarters (conveniently adjacent to his private lab and study), he removed his shoes, socks, and shirt, leaving him in just his trousers. He was exhausted his mind too numb and tired to continue any train of thought for long; his nightmares had all but dissipated since his recovery, but he downed a Dreamless Sleep potion for good measure. As the warm drowsiness of the potion set in, he sank into his bed, sliding under the covers.

By the time he managed to finally doze off, Luna Lovegood had begun to scream.

 

_//_

 

_Black. Black black black black everything black and cold. Numbness, slick fingers poking and prodding. The sharp point of a wand in her back. The smooth scrape of a blade at her wrist. Under her chin. Behind her ear._

_Cool voice, scratchy, soft and feminine and cruel. Good girl. Good girl._

_Care to play again?_

_And more voices, not soft and not feminine and not cool, hot and rough and hard and fast and black black black_ _**black** _ _—_

Severus jerked awake.

He sat straight up in bed, breathing heavily; the covers slipped from him, bearing his naked chest to the winter chill of the room.

Ignoring the cold, he pushed the blankets further from him, shaking his head to clear it. What had that been? Surely not a dream. Confusion wrinkling his black brow, he cast a glance to the empty vial on his nightstand; he ran through a mental checklist, things that could allow images to filter through his brain despite the effects of the potion. He could conclude nothing. Theoretically, he should have experienced no dreams.

But sensations he had just awoken from . . . he raked a hand through his hair. They had been so _vivid_ , almost real, less like a dream and more like a fragmented memory. . . .

His gaze shifted to the analog clock that hung above the doorway opposite him. It read a quarter after ten. He'd managed to sleep for about six hours—probably not nearly as much as his body needed, but an adequate amount of sleep to rejuvenate at least his mind.

And, as he swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood, said-re-energized brain kicked back into gear, and he found himself flooded with memories from the day before: the Ministry, the reporters, Lovegood, the lake. The object she had inexplicably coughed up.

Remembering the item, he reached into his trouser pocket; his fingertips brushed against the velvet wrapping.

Contemplatively, he spared another glance for the clock. Would she be awake? Unlike himself, she had slept most of the evening and night. Unless she had contracted some serious illness, she would probably be conscious at the very least.

Walking over to his dresser, he began rummaging around for some clean clothes. He would go to the infirmary. If Lovegood was not awake to answer his questioning, he could at least run a few by Madam Pomfrey.

It probably should have occurred to him, at he dressed and groomed himself, that there were more important matters to attend to. He had research to do—important research. He had decisions to make as to his future. He ought to be attending to _these_ things, should have been working to secure his _own_ future rather than getting caught up in the strange, but most likely insignificant mystery that some little Ravenclaw had presented him with. Such thoughts should have stopped him from exiting his rooms and stalking down the halls with all his usual billowing menace and making his way to the infirmary.

But it didn't.

 

//

 

As he approached the double doors of the hospital wing, Severus felt the cool sink of dread descend upon him.

It was not the kind of dread he felt when Albus had gazed at him with those forlorn eyes, begging silently to be euthanized. It was not the same dread that filled him when Lord Voldemort and his armies had first stormed the castle. Nor did it equalize the sense of doom that had overwhelmed him when he essentially threw himself at the Dark Lord in the heat of battle, openly declaring his true allegiance as he dueled with the madman, creating a brief distraction for Potter. This was a more subtle dread, triggered by something that may or may not have been an innocuous coincidence.

But he could think of no good reason why there was an Auror standing guard outside of the infirmary doors.

As Severus drew nearer, the man caught sight of him, and his eyes widened, expression going slightly slack in awe. Internally, Severus sneered to himself, knowing exactly what the expression signified; it would appear that he could no longer chide Potter for his celebrity status. Over the course of a few weeks, he had involuntarily forged quite a legend of his own.

And while he did not appreciate being gawked at, he was pleased that the man stood to attention as he came to stand in front of him. Severus gave him a cool, critical glance usually reserved for an unruly student.

"Is there something wrong, Auror?" he asked smoothly, hiding all indication that, if there _were_ something wrong, it might concern him.

The man dipped his head, a cross between a nod and a bow. "Sir. I was initially called to help subdue a rogue patient. I'm just here now as a precaution."

Yes, there it went: his blood ran cold. "Which patient?" he queried tightly. As if he had to ask. She'd been the only person in the ward last night.

The look on the man's face was a cross between apologetic and uncertain. "I am . . . not allowed to say," he said slowly.

Severus eyes, previously expressionless instantly flared to life, flashing furiously.

"Step aside," he commanded.

Remarkably, the guard obeyed without the slightest protest. He even threw in that funny little nod-bow as he made way for Severus to access the doors.

Pushing them open, Severus surveyed the scene that sprang up before his eyes; subliminally, he felt his brow wrinkle, first in confusion, then in alarm.

The first section of the hospital wing looked as it always did: the first few rows of beds were immaculate, all carts and charts in their rightful places, everything pristine and orderly. But at the fourth row of beds was where this all stopped.

Last night, he had left Luna Lovegood slumbering peacefully in her bed at the very end of the ward. Now, as he looked, every bed and table within twenty feet of hers had been ransacked. He quickened his stride, passing a cluster of house elves who were attempting to rectify the mess, sweeping up broken phials, magically repairing ripped bedding, collecting feathers from various disemboweled pillows. Madame Pomfrey was standing over a bed in the corner—Luna's bed—and Severus raced towards her.

"Pomfrey!"

She straightened and turned, looking upon him with a face full of surprise at his fast-approaching figure. He was almost running towards her—but his gait stopped completely when he realized that the bed she was standing over was empty.

"Severus?"

She might as well have been a flowerpot for all the heed Severus paid her then. He took several slow steps, moving past her, coming to stand right before the empty bed. He looked down at it, immediately noting the ripped fabric, the yellow comforter that had been singed, as if with fire. The specks of blood found here and there was also not lost on him.

Vaguely, he became aware of Madame Pomfrey trying to garner his attention.

"Severus? Severus?"

Finally, he turned to her.

"What happened?"

She gave him a cryptic and uncertain look. She said his name again, slowly, placating: "Severus. . . "

 _Damn it_. He cut the chase and instead demanded: "Where _is_ she?"

If he were in full possession of all of his faculties (skepticism and snarkiness included) he would have taken time to examine the oddity of the situation: Severus Snape, most unsociable, unlikeable, heartless man in the school, getting worked up over a sixteen year old girl. But the eeriness flew over him.

Never one to be intimidated, Madame Pomfrey put her hands on her hips authoritatively, but her expression did not challenge or rebuke him. She instead answered him levelly, "She is in the private ward, subdued and under surveillance."

For the first time that morning, he did not allow his expression to change or display his thoughts. "And why?"

At this, Madame Pomfrey sighed. Leaning down, she began stripping the bed, pulling at the blood-speckled sheets. "Last night, after you left, Miss Lovegood had a fit," she said in a low voice. "She was clawing at herself and managed to tear up a good portion of the wing before we were able to subdue her."

Severus looked around again, taking in the mess more critically. This was quite a sizeable amount of destruction for so small a girl. "Did no one hear anything? If she was having a fit, surely you heard—"

But Pomfrey shook her head, rolling the blanket up and handing it to a waiting house-elf. "No. Neither I nor my aid heard a think until she started shattering glass objects. She wasn't screaming or yelling. She . . . " her voice faltered.

Severus watched her, an odd feeling coiling in his stomach. "Go on."

She looked at him, eyes searching his face. "Miss Lovegood has seen a rough time," she stated blandly. "and you know as well as I that any Witch or Wizard with a decent amount of power will tend to . . . lose themselves a bit when put under duress that they cannot or will not cope with. Miss Lovegood is no Harry Potter, but she stands out among the more powerful of the students. She's certainly very bright, which doesn't help matters any.

"In any case, I suspect that, despite the claims of her friends, she isn't as fine and stable as she lets on."

He suppressed a snort of disbelief. "Fine" and "stable" were two of the last words he would ever use to describe Luna Lovegood.

"Last night, she worked herself into a frenzy; I think a nightmare might have triggered it. We found her . . . well, _waltzing_ around the infirmary, stepping on broken glass and bleeding from several cuts on her arm. She was humming some little tune to herself; didn't even seem to notice she was injured."

By the time she had uttered the last bit, he had closed his eyes; unbidden, the image she described flashed before his mind. His stomach clenched.

"May I see her?" he heard himself ask.

If Madam Pomfrey thought his excessive interest and concern was strange, she made absolutely no indication. She simply nodded, and pointed to the all-too-familiar private ward. "She's in there with Nurse Maggie. Quite chipper now, although try not to say anything to set her off."

Severus nodded. That went without saying.

Wordlessly, Severus stepped around the bed and walked up to the private ward's door. Placing a hand on the knob, he was about to pull it open when Pomfrey called from behind him:—

"Why don't I fetch you some tea? I expect she'll want to keep your company for a while, and you're looking a bit peaky."

Remembering that he hadn't eaten anything since lunch yesterday, Severus nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Poppy."

She returned the nod, and bustled off in the other direction.

Steeling himself, Severus turned back to the door, and twisted it open.

 

//

 

Maggie Wisham prided herself on the fact that very little seemed to disturb her now-a-days. Before coming to Hogwarts to be Madame Pomfrey's aid, she had done a full rotation at St. Mungo's, including an extensive round in the psychiatric ward. In there, she had seen things that would make most people whimper, had heard people spout things that were utterly insane, had seen fits of rage and violence that had the entire floor in an uproar for days. She had worked treating witches and wizard deranged enough to try and scrape their own eyes out, and she had been witness to several Bindings of Power, and one Dementor's Kiss, neither of which were pretty in the least. Young though she may be, Maggie definitely did not lack in experience and she was quite capable of handling most any medical situation.

All of this, however, did not stop her from being presently baffled by the teenager sitting in the bed near her.

". . . it's actually considered really good luck to have such frizzy hair," the girl was babbling on, airily, not as if she were really talking to Maggie or anyone at all (but making a distinct reference to Maggie's rather unruly curls, which she unconsciously kept smoothing over). "If you cut it all off and roll it into a ball, it's supposed to ward off Yunkerbunks."

"Yunka-whats—?"

"Yunkerbunks."

"But what are they?"

As the bubbly girl began to rattle off the nature, diet, habitat, and mating habits of these creatures called "Yunkerbunks", Maggie found herself once again eyeing the bandages on the girl's arms. Not four hours ago, she'd helped subdue this very girl. She'd held her down (unnecessarily, almost, since Lovegood put up very little struggle when made to stop dancing), helped heal her bloody feet, hands, and arms, and stroked her hair to soothe her when the girl started hyperventilating and whispering insane nonsense. And here that same girl was, cuts cleaned up, wrists and ankles bound with magical restraints that went taught whenever her stress levels rose, chatting Maggie up about a magical being she very much doubted existed. She exuded a positively unnerving amount of calm and cheeriness for someone who had been twirling manically around on broken glass a few hours ago.

". . . but apart from that, Father used to say that hair like yours is representative of great intelligence— you were in Ravenclaw, weren't you?"

The question caught Maggie off-guard. "Yes, actually, I—"

The words caught in her throat as the door opened and the figure of none other than Professor Severus Snape loomed in the doorway.

Unable to stop herself, Maggie gulped—and the blushed bright red. She'd attended Hogwarts when Snape had first started teaching. In order to be on-track for medi-witch training, she'd had to take Advanced Potions I and Elixirs and Remedies, both taught by the imposing man before her. It was by sheer luck that she managed to pass both; she (like many) had been absolutely terrified of the tall, dark, glaring man, and this fear had subsequently affected her brewing success. Apparently, this ingrained fear hadn't gotten any better over the years—not even knowing that, yes, the man was on the side of Light, not even after tending to him while he lay unconscious in this very room. He still terrified her.

But, for her pride's sake, she steeled herself, schooling her expression. She stood from where she was sitting, and addressed him formally.

"Professor Snape."

He nodded stiffly at her.

From the bed where she was retrained, Luna waved a hand at him, and exclaimed brightly, "Hello, sir!"

As Maggie watched, her former professor's face went through a series of miniscule, but baffling changes as he took in the sight of the young woman on the bed. Finally, his features settled on a decidedly stoic look, and when he turned back to Maggie, his voice was monotonous.

"You may go, Miss Wisham."

If it had been anyone else, Maggie would have stepped forward, perhaps exclaimed in protest. This was _her_ job, _her_ patient— _he_ wasn't a qualified medi-wizard! But something in the back of her mind squelched any urge she had to rebuff him; she simply nodded once, collected her notepad, and walked towards him.

He made way for her to step past him, towards the door. She expected him to watch her all the way out and make her squirm under his chilly gaze, but he didn't. he kept his eyes on Luna the entire time, who smiled back at him blithely.

Shaking her head to herself, Maggie stepped into the outer infirm, closing the door behind her.

 

//

 

As soon as the door was closed, Severus folded his arms and fixed Luna with the sternest gaze he could muster. He had concluded, in observing the situation, that assuming the role of strict professor was his best option; it was a role he knew well, and through it he could mask any uncertainties, any apprehensions that might possess him.

When he spoke, he was relieved to hear that there was nothing to betray anything other than utter cool in his voice. "Well. Miss Lovegood."

She smiled. "Luna," she corrected.

He pursed his lips, and raised an eyebrow in gesture. "Care to explain yourself?"

She shrugged, and he noted that her shoulders seemed much smaller in the oversized hospital gown. "Yunkerbunks _are_ real. They're just poorly documented because it's so hard to catch one. They're extremely fa—"

"Not that _nonsense_ ," he all but spat, and he could see something in her stiffen, her bright blue eyes taken an almost imperceptible wary edge.

Taking an imposing step towards her, intoning deliberately. "I was speaking about your handy-work back there." He let one hand fall, splaying it out and gesticulating in a grand sweep.

Her face, usually open and unadulterated, took on a closed-off look. She tilted her head downward, eyes dropping from him—almost shamefully.

"I didn't mean to," he could barely hear her muffled murmur. "it was an accident."

"Of course. But can you tell me what . . . _inspired_ this 'accident'?"

One of her hands started playing with the bandage on the opposite one. Merlin, had she been doing handstands on the glass too?

". . . nightmare."

He noted her tone, her reluctance. The image of her surfaced in his mind, dark rings jumping out from beneath her brilliant blue eyes.

"This is why you don't sleep."

"Yes."

"Because you dream."

"No. Because I _don't_ dream. I remember."

"What?"

Pause. She didn't look at him.

"Lovegood."

Still no reply.

He sighed. And relented.

"Luna."

And there, finally. She raised her downcast chin, eyes meeting his. Wide. Lost. Slowly-churning whirlpools, shadows in the depths.

But when she replied, it wasn't with an answer, but with a question of her own:—

"Do you have to know?"

He felt his stoic mask give way, eyebrows raising in surprise. He didn't know what to say to that. Was it his place to be asking her such a thing? And why was he asking when he already knew the answer? When he had seen—through what he suspected to be a fleeting dream-transference—what had happened for himself? Why was he even here? What kind of authority was he in her life to be asking such things of her?

He knew his inability to reply was not lost on the girl. But instead of asking all the above of him, she instead unleashed her best weapon—a small, charming, girlish smile.

"I believe you have something of mine, sir."

Up until that moment, he had more or less completely forgotten about the stone-like object in his pocket. Stepping forward, he produced it now, taking it out of the velvet wrapping and holding it out in his open palm.

Luna waited patiently as he drew nearer to her, coming to stand beside her bed. She looked at the odd object, and then back up at him, eyes twinkling in a familiar manner.

"I suppose you've figured out what it is," she said softly. She did not yet take it from him.

Severus nodded. "I have. But I cannot fathom where it came from."

"The lake."

The simplicity of her answer made him snort. "Obviously."

It was only then that she reached up and plucked the pearl from his hand. As she did, the cords of her restraints brushed against his arm. She cradled it in her hands, as he looked down at her.

"You are not going to talk about it, are you?"

She made a sound, something just shy of a chuckle. "I think it would be kicking a dead horse. No point."

"It would help you."

The words flew from his mouth so fast, he barely registered that he had said them. and, once he did, he was instantly astonished at himself. He himself had never really bought into the idea of "talk therapy", never found any comfort or relief in the idea of sharing and dissecting his innermost secrets to an attentive listener. No matter how long Albus had made him sit in his circular office, the offer to speak freely standing still and stagnant in the air, he never relented; he gave only silence. And it had worked for him.

But this was different. He was a bitter, middle-aged man. This was a bright, nubile young girl. He had spent years training himself to control his emotions and banish his personal demons. For all intents and purposes, it was unlikely she had the necessary level of discipline or wisdom to silently endure everything that had been done to her—at least not without violent repercussions. . . .

As if she hadn't heard him, Luna continued to coo over the pearl, turning it over and over in her palms.

A frown wrought itself upon his mouth, his black gaze darkening.

"Luna."

She didn't look up. She was deliberately ignoring him now.

"Luna," he tried again, his voice taking on a slight authoritative tone, and _he couldn't believe he was saying this_ , "talk to me. At least recount your nightmare. What was it about?"

Her over-turning hands slowed their playing, coming to a halt, both palms cupping around the pearl. When she raised her head to him again, her expression was soft.

"'If you have to ask, you will never know'," she echoed. "'If you know, you need only ask'."

"And I am asking."

"And the answer is: no." she gave a shrug that was supposed to be nonchalant and dismissive. But as Severus watched, the tell-tale bonds on her wrists and ankles began to lose their slack. Centimeter by centimeter, they grew shorter by the second, and he eyed them warily.

"Miss Lovegood," he dropped her first name and yes, there was definite authority in his voice now, "you cannot simply ignore what has happened—you cannot keep these things to yourself and presume that you will be _fine_ —"

" _You_ seem to be doing all right."

He narrowed his eyes. She might be able to mock others with that airy, guileless tone, but not he. He wasn't fooled for an instant.

"Don't get cheeky with me, Lovegood."

She was unaffected by his growl. "Oh, I wouldn't 'presume'—"

"Tea!"

Startled, he turned towards the door to find Madame Pomfrey barging in, laden down with a plate of tea and sandwiches, effectively ending the conversation in one strategic swoop.

Deciding that there was no use continuing the point, he sat himself complacently down in the chair next to her bed. They ate and drank in silence (well, he ate, Luna nibbled on the corner of a tuna sandwich and then set it down, disenchanted). When they were done, a house-elf appeared with a "pop" and took their empty cups and plates away.

Luna, who had set the pearl on her nightstand whilst drinking her tea, picked up her bauble again and held it in fascination. Her bonds had lengthened out again during their meal as the tension eased from her; he suspected that she was being mindful of them, not liking the idea of being bound down.

He knew exactly what that felt like.

Giving an internal sigh, he closed his eyes briefly. Whatever he said to her, he didn't want to disturb her again. As warranted as an emotional catharsis might be, the last thing he wanted to do was upset her.

Resigning himself to drop the subject for today, he spent a few moments watching her in silence. As the pearl was passed from one hand to another, an idea struck him. he leant forward, holding out his own hand.

"May I see?"

Wordlessly, she stopped and dropped the pearl into his open palm. Drawing his wand from his sleeve, Severus tapped the pearl once. A silver chain appeared, and the pearl was fastened to it.

Re-sheathing his wand, he held it back out to her.

Luna gazed upon him with a look of pure delight, her smile slipping forward bravely. She lowered her head, and he looped the chain around her neck. Without thinking, he gently combed her hair out from under the chain so that it rested on her neck, smoothing the blonde strands out once before remembering himself and withdrawing his hand hastily.

Luna, for one, did not seem at all affected by his strange behavior. She simply beamed, admiring her new treasure.

"Wicked. This would have gone smashingly with my high-tops," and there her tone was a wee bit wistful, as she remembered her yellow shoes.

Severus too suddenly recalled the missing footwear. She hadn't been wearing them when he'd pulled her from the lake. Though, if memory served, they had definitely been properly tied beforehand. Which lead him to wonder exactly how she lost them . . . .

"It's too bad Irwin can't express himself. I would have gladly bought him a pair. He needn't have dragged me into the lake."

He blinke. _"Irwin?"_

"Yes. He took my shoes off while I was underwater. I think he liked the color. He had some trouble undoing the laces though, I could tell."

Closing his eyes, he brought a hand to his forehead, massaging one of his temples. How in Merlin's name did he get landed with such a barmy lunatic? "And who, pray tell, is Irwin?"

"It's what Hagrid named the Giant Squid."

"Oh, yes; _naturally_."

They talked for a few more minutes about nothing in particular, and Severus tried not to imagine what an oversized excuse for calamari would want with yellow hightops. After a particularly long break in conversation, Severus gathered himself and stood.

"I shall leave you to rest, I think."

Luna nodded.

"I expect you shall be here for a few more days. No doubt Madame Pomfrey will want to run some tests, and make certain that you make a full recovery." Biting back a nagging sense of unfamiliarity and apprehension, he paused; then asked quietly. "May I visit you tomorrow?"

"Of course."

He pursed his lips. "I may ask you again."

Her mild expression did not change. "I know."

He studied her for a moment longer. Then inclined his head.

"Til tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."


	6. Waning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I realized that, in my first author's note at the beginning of part I, I called Voldemort the  
> "Dark Load" . . . :s
> 
> Oh, and this chapter is dedicated to amberpire, whose unbridled zeal for this story has inspired me and humbled me. thank you so much :)
> 
> one last oh: have patience. I am working on the next chapter. More or less diligently. 
> 
> feel free to freelance beta.

The next day was as stormy and unforgivable as the one before. Even in his dungeon chambers, sitting by the hearth and drinking his morning coffee, he could hear the dull roar from outside.

Staring into the fire, he pondered the little blonde girl he'd left in the infirmary. He wondered whether or not she had managed sleep. If it had been troubled. Or if the storm had kept her awake, bellowed away her night-terrors but kept her from healing slumber, both guardian and jailer.

He himself hadn't dreamed at all. Though there had been images that kept chasing him about—fleeting, completely out of focus, more infused with feeling than clarity. It was the feeling of these unidentifiable images that clung to him in the first hours of his waking, clutching at his mind and his chill skin, taunting him. He couldn't help but think they were from her.

 _The Prophet_ that day was uninteresting. More about unearthing the corruption in the Ministry. An article about the headway made by the new Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, as he tried to piece the government back together. An article with more speculation about Potter—accompanied by a photo shot at an awkward angle. As Severus peered at it, he realized that the picture was not one of Potter at a social function, but in Hogwarts – a corridor in the east wing, if he wasn't mistaken. He was standing in an archway, talking in a seemingly clandestine manner to another, slightly taller figure with platinum hair. . .

_. . . an unnamed source claims that Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived and the slayer of the Dark Lord, has been seen on several occasions conversing with the only son of convicted war criminal, Lucius Malfoy (now serving a minor sentence), Draco. While before nothing but animosity existed between the two young men, they appear now to relate to each other civilly, almost in a manner that could be considered as fraternizing. . . ._

Unable to help himself, Severus sneered dubiously into his coffee. _Circe_. That boy was never going to be rid of the spotlight, was he? Setting his coffee down, he started to fold the paper up. Of all the gossip . . . and from a source within the school, as well. Apparently the de-bugging of reporters hadn't gone as well as planned. Minerva was definitely going to be delivering a speech about that. . . .

He was about to set the paper down and retreat to his private study when another headline caught his eye.

_**St. Mungo's Personnel Give More Aid to Hogwarts** _

Raising a crisp black eyebrow, he smoothed out the section to read, skimming over the words:

_Since the Final Battle of Hogwarts, staff from St. Mungo's Magical Hospital have been ever-present at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, helping care for the wounded and gravely injured. It was only last week that the team was removed from the school . . . but as early as this morning, another team of experts—this time solely from the Department of Mental Matters—have been dispatched to Hogwarts yet again._

_Though the broader purpose of this team is to give counseling and support to the traumatized students, they were initially called on case due to a student going rogue. In Hogwarts Hospital Wing last night, a female student who had been originally sent to the infirm for pneumonia, had what the experts are now describing as a "fit". Though no one will say outright, it is implied that the girl inflicted some harm upon herself, and that she trashed part of the infirmary in her so-called "fit". Experts will be examining her and several other students throughout the week to determine if any need further treatment in the private wards of. . . ._

It went on, but the words were lost on him.

It took him all of a minute to get fully dressed and sweep out the door to the infirmary.

 

//

 

The Auror that had been standing guard the day before was not there; instead, he was replaced by two rather burly-looking men that Severus suspected were not Aurors, but brawny orderlies from St. Mungo's.

In any case, they were not so keen to let him pass. Which was a pity, because he was in no mood to be denied.

"You cannot go in at this time, sir," one told him.

"The hell, I can't," he spat, taking a menacing step towards the man, even though he was outmatched in height and muscle. At this point, he couldn't much care. He was _worried_ , damn it and a worried Severus Snape was ten times as dangerous and nasty as an irritated one.

"Our orders are to allow no one entrance."

"I am a _professor_ here" (not true, but he'd play whatever cards he could) "Not some bloody reporter—"

"I am sorry, sir, but you'll have to—"

"I will _NOT_ leave!" he roared. Within an instant, he had his wand drawn and raised, and he was about to hex these imbeciles into oblivion or stun them into the next century when a female voice rang clearly out over the rage thundering in his ears:—

"STOP!"

Never had the screeching of Madame Pomfrey sounded so musical.

The guards, who were about to draw their own wands (not quickly enough, Severus thought maliciously), halted at her voice. They turned to find that the double doors behind them had burst open to reveal the seriously irked, small medi-witch. She was giving them all a look of pure poison.

" _Cease_ and _desist_ ," she bit out. "I will _not_ have brawling, dueling, or fighting of any kind within a hundred feet of this ward. Severus!" she barked.

He lowered his wand.

Allowing herself to gift him with a withering look, she raised a hand and jerked her thumb to point behind her. "Come in."

As if sensing intrinsically that this was no woman to be trifled with, whether she had the authority or no, the guards stepped aside immediately, parting like the Red Sea. Severus just barely contained the look of satisfaction on his face as he passed them and strode into the ward.

He knew he would be in for a good lecture if he stood around, but he didn't want to give Poppy the chance. It would only waste his time. Before she managed to close the doors and lock them once again, his strides had carried him half-way across the infirm, towards the back where the private ward—where Luna—was.

He heard Poppy shout his name, but he paid her not an iota of heed; he only lengthened his stride, coming up to the door of the private ward, waving a cursory hand over it to dislodge any locking spells, and yanked it open.

If he had been any sort of calm, if he had the presence of mind to step back and survey the situation as it was, he might have not been so incensed by the scene that awaited him. As things were, he was neither calm nor omniscient-minded; and he could not help but be equal parts horrified and enraged at what he saw.

A medi-team of no less than three wizards was standing over the small bed that Luna occupied, whilst another witch stood back, making notations with an enchanted quill, looking over the situation skeptically. She was the only one who actually noticed Severus' entrance, and when she saw him her jaw dropped in surprise. Like Pomfrey, he paid her no mind, moving deftly past her to the men crowding around Luna's bed.

They were all talking in tense voices—mock-whispers, loud but hushed, talking alternately to each other and trying to calm down the girl struggling away from them on the bed. From where Severus was, he could see that Luna was in obvious discomfort: if the frown on her mouth was any indication, the sweat on her brow definitely gave her away, as did the way she wriggled away from any hand that tried to touch her. Unfortunately, the more tense she grew, the tighter her magical bonds became; as was, she was nearly splayed flat out on the bed, limbs only slightly mobile. He could see by her expression that she was fighting for calm—and losing it rapidly.

"Miss Lovegood—"

"—just trying to hel—"

"—please cooperate—"

"May need to sedate her—"

He was so angry he could feel the heavy thud of his pulse behind his eyes. It was by heaven's good grace alone that he still had the presence of mind not to start screaming his head off at everyone.

But, when one of the physicians put a hand on one slender leg, causing Luna to emit a strangled yelp, that good grace vanished.

 _"STOP THIS INSTANT!_ What in Merlin's name do you think you're _doing_? _!_ Take your bloody hands off her, you blithering idiot, or I will de-glove them!" he shoved the startled medi-wizards aside, using both brute force and magic, sending them sprawling backwards. He stood at the foot of the bed and whirled around to face them where they lay scattered on the floor, menacing.

One of the wizards, pushed himself up on his elbows, righted his askew glasses and looked up at Snape sternly. "This is outrageous, sir—we have every authority to be here—"

"Fuck your _authority_ —"

Another wizard, youngish and blonde, had also pulled up to his feet; he now drew his wand and pointed. "Sir," he said levelly, "you are only aggravating the situation. We are only helping her, you hear? If you don't stand down, I will be forced—"

"Get _out,"_ Severus seethed, summoning his reserves. Energy started to crackle in the air around him, the way it always did when he was about to perform wordless, wandless magics. A tendril of blue light crackled before him, causing the wizards to blanche.

"Are you all _deaf?_ _OUT!"_ he bellowed, "Get the bloody hell out of—"

"SEVERUS SNAPE!"

And once again, it seemed that all one needed to commandeer a situation of shouting men was one shouting woman.

All the medi-wizards, as well as the dumbstruck witch, turned immediately to the figure of the infirmary's matron standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, red-faced and fuming. Severus looked to her as well, if for no other reason than being startled to hear his name.

The abrupt quiet was broken by a thin gasp, and they all turned to see Luna Lovegood laying board-straight on the bed, hands spasming as she hyperventilated.

Immediately, one of the medi-wizards (the only one who had been more or less silent) gravely pulled out his wand and waved it gently over Luna, murmuring. Instantly, her body relaxed, and her breathing evened out. Within moments, she was fast asleep.

The stern look that Poppy gave them all was clue enough. They all trooped out of the private ward single-file, Severus bringing up the rear. He spared another glance back at the now peacefully sleeping girl before the door closed.

In a very tight voice, Poppy told the "gentlemen and lady" that they could go and come back later. Severus gave them his best glare as they trooped out, and they avoided his eyes like frightened schoolchildren. Once they were out of sight and earshot, Pomfrey turned to him.

The look on her face was not the visage of irritation and outrage he was expecting. Actually, her face as she turned back to him possessed next to no heat or annoyance. It was simply grave. Sad.

Craning around, he looked at the door again.

"Severus."

He turned back, with effort. He needed to be in that room—which was a ridiculous sentiment to feel because the girl was bloody sleeping and he couldn't _do_ anything for her, but—

Poppy sighed.

"I promise to let you in later if you come with me now."

It seemed that was all the encouragement he needed. Without another word, he followed her lugubriously to her office.

Madame Poppy Pomfrey's office was not like that of a teacher. Hers was neat and orderly, uncluttered by papers and miscellaneous items, impeccable in its cleanliness and tidiness. But none of this to the point of being unwelcoming; on the contrary, the architecture and color scheme both seemed to be especially designed to emit soothing overtones. He got the feeling that there were many tear-stains on the chair in which he sat.

"Minerva should be the one telling you this," Pomfrey was saying as he shifted in his chair. "But she's away on business. And, somehow, I doubt even she would think this entirely appropriate."

He narrowed his eyes.

Moving around her desk, she sat down across from him. she sighed.

"Firstly, and before you ask, I didn't call the people from St. Mungo's. Their coming here was in accordance with the law; if a student at Hogwarts appears to be mentally unstable as to present a danger to herself or her peers, specialty personnel will make a mandatory checkup.

"Secondly . . . this is technically none of your business." She raised a hand when his eyes flashed and he opened his mouth to retort. "Again, I say this from a legal standpoint. You are not kin. You are not a concerned fellow student. You are not a guardian. Since you are no longer on staff as a professor, you don't even possess any _in loco parentis_ liberties. You cannot dictate any actions concerning the welfare of Luna Lovegood. I will talk to the medi-wizards and smooth things over, but if you violate their domain again, you will be breaking the law."

"So what?" he was surprised, after his dutiful silence, at the sudden and heated outburst. "If they find her mentally incompetent—and they will, believe you me—she's simply to be carted away? Have you _seen_ the residents in the Mental Matters ward?"

It wasn't a question. He knew she had. The hard cast that her eyes took on was proof enough.

"They will decide what they think is best for her."

"They will commit her. Maybe permanently. Do you think she should be committed?"

"I don't have the expertise to—"

"That isn't what I asked," he snapped.

She gave him a long look. Finally, she said, "No."

"Exactly—"

"Severus, it really isn't your place." Her mouth was hard, and her words were sharp. "The girl lost her mother when she was nine. She just recently lost her father. Her whole world was turned upside-down by the war. . . and then there's the fiasco at Malfoy Manor. I know you're concerned for her; I've seen it. But it simply isn't appropriate—it's potentially confusing. She has no loving parental figures in her life now, and you showing her any compassion—"

"I am the _farthest_ thing from a father—"

"You know perfectly well what I mean! For Merlin's sake . . . she's a teenage girl, Severus!"

She might as well have slapped him full across the face. He didn't know how to reply or what to say. All he could do was try his best to ignore the look Poppy was giving him—something torn between sympathy and you-ought-to-know-better. She was, of course, absolutely correct in everything she had said; in this situation, he had nil power—legal or otherwise—to effect Luna Lovegood's fate. He could testify to the St. Mungo's team on her behalf, vouch for her . . . but she wasn't even a member of his House. Up until a month or so ago, they hadn't even spoken to one another. Whatever statement he made wouldn't be valuable; and they probably already thought he was a raving lunatic. . . .

Realizing that he had drifted off in thought, he looked back up to find Poppy still giving him that same odd expression. A wave of annoyance flickered to life inside of him, and he scowled deeply.

Pushing his chair back, he abruptly stood up. From his imposing height, he looked down at her with more disdain than was warranted, and replied not-quite-graciously, "But of course. How foolish of me to think that I could make a difference. I shall show myself out." He gave her a swift, curt nod. "Good day, Poppy."

And, in a whirl of black robes, he stalked out of the infirmary.

 

//

 

He stomped around the castle for approximately an hour afterwards, fuming, thinking furiously of ways to insinuate himself into the situation properly, to help the silly girl. He made an entire circuit of the castle's east side, only refraining from venture into the courtyards for the rain, which pounded heavily against the walls and roared with dull intensity over all of his thoughts. The predominating emotion that weighed him down was anger, though concern and embarrassment were chief players as well. He kept kicking himself mentally, looking back on the situation he'd left in the infirm and feeling somewhat mortified. Merlin, he'd behaved like a complete psychotic headcase—in front of professional medical personnel, blundering and indelicate idiots though they were. Albus would doubtlessly be scolding him severely right about now—

He stopped himself when he began to think about Albus. It was just one more thing he couldn't bring himself to properly face; not yet. The memory of his actions was still too fresh in his mind. and whenever he did think about it—about his part in the entire sordid affair, his pliancy, his submission and status as a pawn—he felt like a monster.

More so than he felt normally, anyways.

Except in the presence of Lovegood, ironically.

Stopping in the middle of a corridor, Severus blinked in surprise, mulling over that last thought more carefully. This was a new development, it seemed—or at least, it was something he'd not recognized before. But it was true: around Lovegood, he did not feel monstrous, or condemned, or worthless. Whatever Luna Lovegood was, she certainly held his every attention, leaving him little time to dwell on his own tormented person.

Picking up his pace again, Severus finished the length of the corridor and made a sharp turn, deciding that he'd had enough of his own aimless wandering. It was time to return to his chambers, maybe even get some work done; do something useful for a change.

Perhaps he couldn't do anything legally to ensure Lovegood's safety and peace of mind. But he'd find a way to help her, Merlin damn him. He would find _something_. It was the least he could bloody well do.

And he'd go back tomorrow. He would hold his head high and march into the infirmary—and maybe hex anyone who tried to stand in his way—but he would not lose his temper. He would demand to see Luna calmly, and he would sit with her, and never once would he raise his voice or show himself to be angry. Hell, he would even refrain from snarling at the medi-wizards if they were present. He would behave like an adult, be stable and even. For the girl who was constantly floating high above in the clouds, he would be her solid ground to walk upon.

If only for an hour.

When Severus awoke the next morning he realized, to his disgruntled dismay, that he had slept past eight—uncommon for him, and utterly lazy in his opinion. Although, he thought grimacing as he slowly sat up, peeling away from the book his cheek had been plastered to, much of that could be attributed to the fact that he'd slept very little. Sitting upright in the hard wooden chair in his lab, he scanned over the text he'd been sleeping on; the last thing he remembered was reading this particular page twice over, unable to make proper sense of it due to drowsiness, and that had been around three-thirty in the morning. . . .

So, all in all, he'd had about four-and-a-half hours' worth of shut-eye. Enough to complete three full REM cycles, and that was it. Thankfully, his exhaustion had been so complete that said cycles had progressed unfettered by dreams of any sort. Thank Circe for small favors.

When he'd gotten back to his chambers the day before, he had immediately shut himself in his laboratory and started scouring through ideas. Since he wasn't in any legal position to help Lovegood, and he wasn't a medi-wizard by practice, the only thing that he could possibly think of within legal parameters was to find a potion that might ease some of her symptoms. His first venture had been a calming draught—but that idea was tossed after the first hour of brainstorming. Calming draughts worked wonders in a pinch, but were unhealthy when used long-term; they were known to produce assiduous lethargy, and in some cases of extreme abuse, brain damage. He looked over a few recipes, thinking about changing some of the ingredients; ultimately, he could conclude that the idea was no good. Changing ingredients of calming draughts was simple enough and didn't require much testing time; however, the ingredients he would need to change in order to prevent hazardous side-effects took away most of the potion's potency.

His second thought was not a potion, but a spell. There were certain guardian spells—Dreamwatcher magic, so it was called—that conjured up a patronus of sorts to keep watch over a sleeping person. But those kinds of defensive oneiric spells were meant to protect sleepers from outside influence: that was, from psychic attack, an unwanted breach by a legilimens, or enchantments. And there were no variant oneiric spells simply for dreams. So after another hour-and-a-half, that idea was too chucked.

His third idea was the one that kept him up most of the night. Going back to the idea of a potion, he started to research dreamless sleep elixirs. He knew that, for tonight at least, Luna Lovegood had probably been given the standard form of Dreamless Sleep, and would not suffer tonight. However, he also knew that no medical professional would ever condone the continuous administering of such a potion. This was for two reasons. One, the Dreamless Sleep Potion was extremely addictive; the sleep-symptoms it produced were mildly euphoric, and left one feeling as if floating on a cloud. Taken consistently and allowing for addiction to build resulted often in loss of appetite and inability to feel thirst, which lead eventually to death. Two, Dreamless Sleep also had deleterious long-term effects even if taken at a non-addictive rate. The effects were quite similar to those of calming droughts: brain damage, lethargy, but also incurable coma-states, and, in some cases wherein patients had atypical reactions, dangerous paranoia and insomnia.

Considering how dangerous the potion was if abused, he couldn't quite blame anyone for not tinkering with its formula more; there was no real way to test it without violating wizard laws.

Unless, of course, he were to test it on himself. Which he was prepared to do.

But, according to the calculations he'd scrawled out on some spare parchment beside him, the risk didn't seem necessary—simply because there was little he feasibly do to potion without changing its delicate makeup entirely. Every ingredient and every direction was absolutely essential; if he changed anything, from the amount of anise to the number of times the potion was stirred widdershins, he'd end up with a completely different potion. But, in most cases, it would just be poison.

But he couldn't give up yet. This was area, damn it. This was alchemy—magical science. This was where he excelled. And it was all mathematical, all concrete. He would find a way.

But for now, at 8:22 in the morning, running on 4.5 hours of sleep, he was stumped.

Deciding to give his brain a rest, he dragged himself out of his chair and opted to take a very long shower. After that, he sent for his house-elf and ordered breakfast (coffee, fruit, and a bagel he wasn't likely to eat), and the morning paper. Sipping on his coffee, he scanned through today's headlines with little zeal.

There was another article about Potter again. Apparently, this time he and Mr. Malfoy had been spotted in Hogsmeade together. There were even two pictures to accompany this article: one shot from outside a window, depicting the two young men in Honeydukes; Draco was smirking with a self-satisfied look whilst Potter laughed, possibly at something the former said. The other picture was taken from behind, and showed the two walking together, side-by-side; upon closer inspection, the moving figures in that picture would amble closer, hands almost brushing, and then pull slightly apart again.

Severus frowned lightly. Perhaps there was more to the headlines than he originally thought. Severus squinted again at the Honeydukes picture. Draco, for all his smirking, did seem to be genuinely pleased—something Severus hadn't seen in his slightly estranged godson in a long time. He hummed deep within his throat. He wasn't certain how to feel about this; though he didn't necessarily despise Potter as he'd pretended to, he couldn't say he was particularly fond of the boy. He still did, to some degree, hate the memory of James he saw in the younger Potter. But, he conceded with a slight sigh, whatever he begrudged Harry, he couldn't discourage anything that might make Draco even moderately happy.

Putting the thought aside for the moment, he sped through the rest of the paper. Dribble, dribble, dribble. Apparently Minerva was away at an international conference, which was briefly outlined in the paper; she wouldn't be back for another week. His gut twisted; he had been contemplating taking his case to Minerva . . . but, thinking on what Poppy said, he didn't know exactly what her reaction would be. That she was still gone was probably for the best.

Sighing, Severus glanced at the clock hanging above his mantle. It now read 9: 42. Folding up the paper, he thought carefully. In two hours, it would be lunchtime. He stretched carefully, feeling the pull in his muscles from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. He would take a short, proper nap, he decided. Then he would make his appearance.

 

//

 

Almost exactly two hours later, Severus found himself walking slowly down the halls of the school. Without his noticing, class had let back in session from the winter hols, and he was almost startled at the number of students he had to wade through—although "wade" probably wasn't an apt word, since they parted like the Red Sea in his wake. He was avoiding their stares, mixed with fear and awe and respect; he was unused to it. Dealing with students was so much easier when they just feared and hated him.

Finally, he made it to the infirmary. The same guard from the day before was standing there, and he appraised Severus warily. Undeterred, Severus stepped up to the man, drawing himself up to his full height.

"I need to see Ms. Lovegood," he said simply.

The guard continued to survey him. Finally, he nodded. "If you cause any kind of ruckus," he intoned, "You will be removed immediately."

Severus returned the nod gravely. "Understood."

Giving him one last long look, the guard stepped aside and opened the door.

Stepping into the infirmary, Severus found himself looking around in surprise. It wasn't empty, as he presumed it would be; second term had only just started, and there were already two student lying in bed with fevers, and one second year boy getting patched up by Maggie from what looked like a fight. On the other side of the room, another second year (presumably the adversary) glared at the boy Maggie was attending to, arms crossed, a ridiculous fluffy white tail twitching behind him irritably.

And, at the far end of the infirm, standing right in front of the private ward, was a slender, platinum-haired someone.

Severus approached his godson cautiously from behind. Hearing footsteps, the young man turned around, his eyes widening in surprise to see his former Professor.

"Pro—sir," he stuttered, obviously bewildered.

Severus drew up to him until they were a pace apart. "Draco," he returned, not-quite-warmly but about as close as he could manage.

Draco, always uncannily in tune with what Severus was trying to express, smiled a bit. "How are you, sir? I haven't seen you around. I almost thought you might have taken off without saying." There was a smidgen of hurt in his tone then, almost undetectable.

Severus frowned, shaking his head. "No, no." He wouldn't do that. Not to Draco. "I have been . . . busy."

It was a lame response, but Draco nodded, not seeking further explanation. Instead, he turned his head as his grey eyes slid back towards the imposing, charmed door.

"Are you here to see Luna?"

Severus felt a twinge of embarrassment then, and Poppy's words floated back to him. what was he doing here? What would he tell Draco—tell anyone? That he, the sarcastic bastard extraordinaire was actually concerned about this blonde feychild?

Well, there was no point in lying.

"Yes," the word came out rushed, in a whoosh of breath.

Draco nodded, his soft small mouth angling into a frown. "So am I," he said. As the boy shifted, Severus noticed for the first time that he was holding onto the handles of a small paper bag. "They won't let me in, though. No students. They probably think I'm going to hex her or something. Son of a notorious Death Eater and all." He gazed at the door with a mix of gloominess and anger.

Severus shook his head, slowly, still flooded with a strange sense of relief. "No. They simply aren't letting students see her at present. I'm actually surprised that I still have access. I . . . made something of a scene yesterday." Why did he say that? He stole a glance at his godson to gauge his reaction.

Draco's fair eyes widened to saucers. "You _did_?"

Severus pursed his lips uncomfortably. ". . .Yes."

Most graciously, Draco chose not to question further into the matter. Instead, the both stood there silently for a moment, staring at the door.

The silence was broken by Draco asking:

"So; I suppose you'll be going in then."

Severus merely nodded.

Draco looked down at the floor, frowning at his shoes. Then, he looked back up at his professor questioningly. "Sir . . . would you mind . . .?" He gestured somewhat helplessly at the gift bag in his other hand. As Severus looked, he realized with a jolt that he recognized the gaudy logo on the side: Honeyduke's. "It's just, we—I got these for her, but I don't know when they'll let me see her, if at all—"

Without letting him finish, (and choosing not to pry about the Freudian "we") Severus reached down and deftly lifted the bag from Draco's hand. He decided that the smile settling at the edge of his godson's mouth was a rare and wonderful creature indeed.

"I would be honored," Severus said simply.

He felt his eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline as Draco almost—almost—beamed at him. It was uncanny to see a Malfoy so genuinely pleased; uncanny, but not off-putting. It was actually rather nice to see the young man so enthused.

"Thank you very much, sir," Draco said humbly. He glanced at the door briefly, then back up at Severus. "Well, I suppose I ought to go. My lunch is almost over, and I told Ha— told someone I'd talk to them before next class."

Again, the slip of the tongue was not lost on Severus. He was sorely tempted this time to point it out—Draco had all but uttered the bloody name anyway—but he dismissed it. Draco wouldn't lie to him (mostly because the boy knew all too well that lying successfully to Severus Snape was nearly impossible); but the conversation that would no doubt ensue was for another day.

So he nodded, and Draco again gave thanks, and scurried on his way, leaving Severus alone with the door.

Sighing, he knocked twice, gave pause, and turned the handle.


	7. I have found what you are like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The poem is "I have found what you are like" by ee cummings. I do not own.

Compared to what he had seen of Luna Lovegood in the past few days, the sight that greeted him nearly made him sigh in relief. There she was, sitting up in bed, smiling and chatting amiably to Madame Pomfrey, who was standing at her side, running diagnostics on her with her wand. As soon as she became aware of the door opening, Luna looked away from the older medi-witch, startling blue eyes landing on him.

She looked thin, thinner than usual, and her face was somewhat gaunt. But the smile that soared to him across the room lit up her every feature.

"Hi, Professor!"

His mouth twisted into what might have been a smile but felt more like a grimace. Whatever horrific expression he sent Luna's way was quickly wiped from his face when Poppy turned to him also.

The look he gave her was one of utter cool, his eyes still pools of black ink. It was the most passive expression he had, but still, he could feel a twitch of defiance in his eyes; challenge. After their nice little chat yesterday, it was apparent to him that Poppy didn't think his constant presence was a good idea. The wary way she regarded him now reinforced this twofold; her overall countenance was not defensive, but her eyes clearly said _watch yourself._

Internally, Severus sneered. He would have liked to see her try and throw him out. He had never felt any serious ill-will towards Pomfrey in his entire life, but now, it was all he could do not to bare his teeth and hiss at her _Try. Just_ _ **try**_ _._

He turned his attention from Pomfrey without addressing her, instead putting his focus back on the little blonde girl. "Hello, Ms. Lovegood. How . . . are you feeling?"

The words came out strange, stuck like tar to his tongue, but Luna seemed pleased all the same. "Wonderful," she said, smiling dreamily, head lolling a bit. "Just wonderful."

Severus arched an eyebrow. Though he was accustomed to Luna's ethereal manner, she sounded a wee bit more spaced out than usual. His questioning gaze settled on Madame Pomfrey, who met it readily.

"One of the medi-wizards came in earlier." She paused, watching him carefully for any evidence of the anger that was flaring within him; but he only blinked.

"He mostly talked to her. But he did run a few protocol tests, administered a few potions. They've made her slightly loopy—more than usual, anyhow—but she hasn't eaten yet today, which is most likely making it worse."

"I see. Well, then, I hope you don't object, but I have made arrangements for a house-elf to bring us lunch."

A strange emotion flickered across Madame Pomfrey's face, and was gone.

"Not at all." It actually sounded as if she meant it.

"Well. Then." He had almost expected a fight. The fact of her complacence was almost . . . unsettling.

Somewhat more tentatively than he would have liked, he took a few steps closer to the bed. Remembering the parcel he was bearing, he held it up to display it. Even in her semi-lucid state, Luna's face brightened and she let out an excited, "oh."

"From Mr. Malfoy," he clarified, at the odd look Poppy was giving him. "He was standing outside looking like an abandoned child. Apparently, he was forbidden to step in."

Poppy shot him a look that was decidedly darker than he thought her capable of, but Luna didn't seem to give serious thought to his words, for she was rummaging in the paper bag, pulling out its contents.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Sugar quills! I adore these, you know . . . simply . . . I used to suck on these all the time during your lectures. . . ."

He felt one of his eyebrows raise.

". . . just . . . to keep from falling asleep . . . couldn't eat during lab of course, but lecture . . . you really do have a lovely voice, you know, I could just doze right off . . . it's almost like humming, or— or a soft song. . . ."

Madame Pomfrey watched his tightening expression with growing interest. She could have almost sworn there was a slight pinkish tint to his ever-so-pale features.

But, as amusing as it was to see the once-dreaded Potions Master all but blush, she was nevertheless inclined to take pity on him, and she gestured in his direction. "By all means, take a seat. I just need to check over a few more things and then I'll let myself out. Should only take a minute."

Taking up her suggestion, Severus conjured himself a chair and sat on the opposite side of the bed, a few feet away so as not to seem intrusive. Steepling his fingers, he watched Poppy hold Luna's head and carefully tilt it side to side, then instructing her to roll it slowly in each direction. He watched, fascinated, at the gentle fingertips prodding the sides of that slender neck, probing just behind the lobeless right ear, feeling for the pulse. Examining her wrists now where there were bruises from her restraints.

It was only when he looked back up at Luna's dreamy face that he realized she was watching him watch her, and he directed his gaze down, something odd crawling in the pit of his stomach.

As a means of distracting himself, he then proceeded to conjure up a cup, saucer, and pot of tea. He sat back in his chair, legs crossed, sipping it and watching with what he hoped was only a mildly interested look.

Madame Pomfrey turned one of Luna's wrists over, smoothing a thumb over the bruise and letting that thumb travel up her arm. Severus watched her push up the short sleeve of Luna's white hospital gown, revealing another bruise. Unlike the ones on her wrist, this patch of discolored skin was not dark purple, but pink-yellow: a bruise acquired a few days ago. A bruise shaped by fingers.

He'd seen that bruise before.

Madame Pomfrey clucked her tongue. "This one's almost healed up," she said almost to no one in particular. "Your wrists will take a few days, but these on your upper arms should be nearly gone by tomorrow."

A small frown made its way onto Luna's face, and she wrinkled her nose, mouth curling down. "That's too bad," she sighed forlornly. "I really like them."

Severus was all but certain that he just inhaled his tea.

Whilst he muffled his hacking, Madame Pomfrey continued her examination, her face completely impassive, not even acknowledging Luna's statement nor Severus' reaction. And she didn't say another word, not until there was a knock at the door, signaling the anticipated arrival of the house-elf.

"I suppose that's my cue," Poppy muttered to herself. Rummaging in her pocket, she produced a single vial of potion that Severus recognized as a mild calming draught. She turned to Severus.

"See that she takes this after her meal, will you?"

He nodded wordlessly and she set the vial on the bed-table. Then, she let the house-elf in, stepped out, and shut the door behind her.

Whilst Luna continued to "ooh" and "ahh" over the assortment of goodies Draco had purchased for her, Severus rose from his seat. He took the large silver tray from the house-elf, thanking the creature and dismissing it, and placed it carefully on the edge of Luna's bed. Conjuring up a small table, he set about arranging the contents of the tray; it was a menial task, almost domestic, the kind of thing he would have sneered at before.

He wasn't sneering now.

Luna smiled almost shyly at him as he handed her a plate of vegetable and lentil soup, with a slice of warm ciabatta bread on the side. He had requested a simple lunch (sweet Merlin, he'd have liked to see Pomfrey's face if he made Luna tackle spaghetti in her state), and as much had been provided. However, if the smell was anything to go on, it was anything but bland.

As he set about preparing himself a dish, Luna spoke quietly beside him.

"Madame Pomfrey told me you had a tantrum."

He broke off a slice of bread. "I did."

"Why?"

"Eat your soup."

Blue eyes wide as saucers, she dutifully and mechanically put a spoonful in her mouth, masticated, and swallowed. Then:—

"Why?"

"Something to drink?"

"Milk, please."

He poured her a glass. She took a long gulp, and almost forgot to wipe off the white residue on her upper lip.

"Why?"

He paused, his spoon half-way to his mouth. He looked at her deliberately.

She ducked her head and spooned her soup, a small, mischievous smile playing on her lips.

They didn't speak again until they had both finished and Severus had cleared everything away with a wave of his wand. Once everything down to the last crumb was gone, he settled back in his chair and looked at her.

Before she could continue pursuit of her earlier query, he sucked in a quick breath and asked:—

"You had a visit from one of the St. Mungo's people this morning?"

She nodded, solemnly. "Yes. Not all of them, just one. Tall, blonde. Nice eyebrows. Dr. Bryan Melrough."

Severus scoured his memory, trying to recall the faces of the wizards he'd terrified like a group of first years yesterday . . . but the only blonde-headed person among them that came to mind hadn't looked remotely frightened. "I see. And what did Dr. Melrough do?"

There was nothing in his tone to betray his apprehension; nevertheless, she gave him a long, slow look. "Not much," she replied at last. "He ran a few tests. Mostly, we just talked."

"Before or after he gave you the serums?"

"Before. Although he said that, with me, it didn't make much of a difference."

He almost smirked at that. But his overhanging sense of dread prevented him, and kept his face serious as he asked: "Did you tell him anything? Did he talk to you about your dreams? About what happened during the war and at Malfoy Manor? What did he ask you?"

Never in his life had he seen Luna Lovegood look annoyed; like crying, it didn't seem like an expression she should ever wear. But he thought he detected a tiny, miniscule flicker of the symptom as she gave him another long look.

"He asked me the same question that you did."

He held his breath.

A small hand went to her chest, where she tugged on the pearl that hung around her neck.

"He doesn't get special treatment just because he's not you."

Exhale. Pause.

"They think you're a threat."

"To whom?"

"To . . . yourself. They . . . they are considering whether or not to have you committed."

"Okay."

Unable to stop himself, he heaved a great sigh, and brought a hand up to cover his face. The momentary blackness provided some relief, enough to give him the strength to say, "They will keep questioning you. It won't take them more than a week to reach a conclusion. And if you refuse to answer them . . . they . . . I don't . . ."

She waited, watching him curiously.

He set his mount into a hard line. "I am not sure what they'll do."

Luna still said nothing, white fingers turning the pearl over and over.

He screwed his eyes shut behind his hands. He hadn't noticed himself hunch over, but he now turned his face downwards, hands covering his expression, elbows resting on knees. "You need to talk, Ms. Lovegood. If not to me then to someone. You have to talk to them about this."

. . . .

"But it's not theirs."

He whipped his head out of his hands, straightening a bit. His black eyes widened at her.

"It's not theirs," Luna repeated; her hands were now resting calmly in her lap, and she tilted her head to one side, showing off the misshapen ear he had grown inexplicably fond of. "It's mine. It doesn't belong to them. Or you."

He just stared, not knowing what to say.

Pursing her lips, she looked down at her hands, thinking. "You killed Dumbledore," she glanced at him as she said this, electric blue eyes meeting inky black unabashedly. "You haven't told anyone about it, not really. You gave a statement. You gave your reasons. But the memory and the event itself . . . you never did surrender that. And you shouldn't have to: it's all yours. It belongs to _you_."

"So . . . what, then? Do we all keep our miserable memories to ourselves? Do we all wallow in our own pain and suffering?"

Even to him that sounded a bit melodramatic. Obviously she thought so.

"Seems to work for you."

He rolled his eyes. "Me? I am an ugly—"

"No you're— "

"Quiet. An ugly, bitter, jaded, ex-Deatheater. There is a great deal that _works_ for me. And I, for one, do not _wallow_."

"No. You take your frustration out on first-years. And Neville."

"You are missing the point, Lovegood."

"No, you are. Why are you here, sir?"

He looked at her, taken aback. He was so flabbergasted, he actually found himself struggling for words. "I—well, if you must know, I was concerned—"

She shook her head. "No, no, that's not what I mean. Why are you here? Still? At Hogwarts?"

He just gaped at her, uncomprehending.

"You could be anywhere in the world right now, sir—but you're still here. Why? You don't owe anyone anything. The war is over. You aren't a spy. You're just you."

"I don't even know who I am. I am nothing but my wounds, Ms. Lovegood. At this point, I am not sure there even is a man under all of this scar tissue."

"Well . . . you've got time now to figure it out."

He scowled; the girl was hopelessly, disastrously optimistic. "And it will be that simple, will it? I was a spy for _seventeen years_ , Lovegood. Quite honestly, I didn't expect to make it through this war. Statistically, I should not have survived. I was supposed to _die_ , if you recall."

It was then that she looked at him for the first time with a truly cross expression, and he decided that she had the prettiest pout in all the bloody world.

"You are alive, sir. Deal with it."

He considered her words. Because of course the girl was right. And she had also successfully side-tracked him and evaded his earlier point. _Clever girl_.

"And, you aren't ugly. You just scowl too much."

He couldn't help it then. He laughed. A low, deep chuckle that reverberated in his chest, made him feel warm, spread to his toes and fingertips.

From the bed, Luna Lovegood smiled.

 

//

 

He stayed for another half hour or so. They simply sat, talking—or, rather, Luna talked and he sat there, listening patiently. She told him more about the things she used to do during his lectures—apparently, during the week they studied the basic principles of metal mutations in Advanced Potions, she'd not only taken extensive notes but come up with an impressive series of doodles, most of them depicting creatures only found in the _Quibbler_. Then she talked at some length about the Quibbler itself, how when it first started up her father had run it from the Rook House.

"It was an absolute mess," she proclaimed brightly. "There was almost no floor space to speak of. Papa sometimes slept on stacks of copies when he was working late. Even my room became storage space for a while. It was a warzone—" she paused, words catching and expression shifting. She smiled wryly. "Well, I suppose it's more of a warzone now than ever, since Malfoy and the others . . . well, flattened it."

Despite her smile, the note of sadness was unmistakable in her voice. "I apologize for that," Severus offered. "Like much that went on in the raids, the demolition of your house was . . . unnecessary."

"Well, most of Voldemort's supporters were usually nothing if not zealous."

He restrained himself from snorting.

Luna wasn't looking at him any longer, but at the door standing on the opposite side of the room.

"My great-great-grandfather built that house," she murmured. "Edwynius Lyduvan Lovegood. He invented the Leg-Locking curse."

He observed her, the way the fingers of her right hand played on the ghostly skin of her left wrist, the flutter of her pale eyelashes. "Did he now."

"Mhmm. I was going to inherit it, when Papa died. Not much to inherit now, though."

He might have apologized again, but he instead just watched the subtle expressions wax and wane in her pale face. She was growing tired, he could tell, by the way her eyes fluttered and by the slackening of her mouth.

"I've started dreaming again. When I'm not remembering . . . I dream about home. It still stands like it once was. Only it's completely empty. I stand in the middle of it, and it groans to me like it's starving. . . ."

As he watched, her bottom lip trembled. But it was with a voice of perfect calm that she said:

"Honestly, I'm not sure whether or not I prefer the night-terrors."

Unsure what to say, Severus allowed a pregnant silence to fall over them, the only sound permeating the room being the dull mechanical ticking of the antique analog clock. Minutes passed like hours. His hands grew heavy in his lap.

And then, quite suddenly, Luna gave a petit yawn. She glanced over at him sleepily, robins-egg eyes gone soft and hazy.

"I don't mean to kick you out, sir, but I think I'm all kinds of knackered."

Immediately, he rose from where he was sitting, stepping up to the edge of her bed as she lay herself back down, getting remarkably cozy in the none-too-comfy hospital bed. Without thinking, he helped draw the covers up further until they just passed her shoulders, neatly smoothing them out with a single hand.

She smiled up at him.

"Thanks, sir," she yawned again.

He shook his head. "There isn't anything to thank me for."

"Slytherin modesty," she murmured, eyelids drooping. "That's a new one."

He rolled his eyes, settling back into his seat. " _Touche_."

Her closed lids flickered for a moment; then, she cracked one open at him curiously. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Your nightmare stopped, didn't they?"

It had a strange effect on him, the muted hopefulness in her voice. Something stirred in his chest.

"Yes. They did."

He expected her to ask for some confirmation, some assurance that perhaps hers would pass as well—but she merely closed her eyes again and smiled one of her surreal little smiles.

"Good."

And, as he watched her drift off to sleep, he supposed that, for now, it was.

 

//

 

That evening found him once again in his laboratory, pouring over books. To his personal disgust and disapproval, the zeal with which he scoured his materials had diminished greatly since last night. Not without viable reason, naturally; since his three major solutions had been more or less shot down as contenders the previous night, he did not, at present, have much to go on. He was simply going over the texts, looking for clues, for something he might have missed, some potion that could be altered to fit Luna's predicament. But three hours in, and his usual rigor had been reduced to listless scanning and flipping of pages. He had pulled books from his library, from the Hogwarts library, had borrowed from both Sprout and Minerva's studies—he had even run through a few forbidden texts, just to cover all the bases (though, he knew it was a lost cause; he wouldn't even consider using something remotely akin to Dark magic on Luna). It was around nine o'clock that evening that he found himself growing restless enough to shut his books, straighten his stack of notes, put on his cloak, and exit his chambers.

He walked with no particular purpose in mind, giving little thought if any to where he was going. His feet, embedded with the muscle-memory of years of stalking these halls, took him on a twisting winding path, long and scenic and refreshing. He moved in absolute silence by default, habit formed in previous years causing him to glide through the castle like one of the ghosts.

Perhaps it was, at this point, inevitable, but eventually his feet lead him to _ side of the castle, down that same hallway he had first chanced upon Luna Lovegood. Again, almost inevitably, he found himself following the same path she had taken him through, pushing through double doors and coming out into the colonnade that surrounded the many frost-covered courtyards.

It didn't take him long to find the small enclosure in which Luna had been constructing her graveyard. He bowed through the archway, ice crunching underfoot as he stepped into the barren yard.

Standing there in the crisp, chilly night air, Severus took in the sight of her unfinished work. Though the courtyard had no roof, leaving it exposed to the elements, there was oddly no snow on the ground where she had been working, only frost clinging to the four stone walls. And because there was no white blanket across the ground, he could see very plainly where her labors had been interrupted.

Curiously, Severus crouched down, stretching long fingers out to graze over a patch of raised earth. Crazy the girl may be, but disorganized she was not: all the tiny deposits of dirt under which the moonstones were buried were in neat rows of ten, each stone about half a foot apart from the other. She had completed sixteen whole rows; row seventeen was short only one.

Pursing his lips, Severus shook his head slightly. Two-hundred and thirty-something people . . . and she had only managed one-sixty-nine. She still had fifty or sixty more to go.

Absently, he traced around the raised earth with one finger. Would she be able to finish? What if she didn't? He did not understand the magic behind the memorial—and there was magic to it, assuredly. What would happen if it was left incomplete?

As his fingertips scraped across the icy earth, he was reminded of that first dark night he had ventured here. How, crouched as he was now, he had watched Luna bury the moonstones; how she had spoken to him in that smooth, airy voice; how that voice had darkened, how that small hand had snatched his arm and burned him.

Unconsciously, he brought his hand away from the ground, massaging lightly the place where her hand had been. His mind, slightly numbed by the cold, slowly filtered through his memory, reviewing events, piecing together facts, trying to make sense of the situation. That night in the graveyard—memorial—she had seemed almost possessed. As is some dark, sickly creature that had been nesting in her chest had, for a moment, split open her ribcage and crawled out. Now that he thought about it, the event was slightly similar to a mystic receiving an oracle. . . .

Except Luna Lovegood had spoken no words of prophecy.

_"And your blood was singing to me and mine was singing back."_

He did his best not to shudder at the memory. Her voice . . . the timbre unearthly, so broken and yet so feral. Unnatural. Warped.

_Severus . . ._

Another voice filtered into his head, cold, high and unbidden. There was little audial resemblance between the two, but intrinsically, Severus' mind drew an eerie connection between the two. Yes. Luna's voice in her distraught state had reminded him somewhat of Lord Voldemort's.

But Lord Voldemort had been insane. An arrogant genius, to be sure, but legitimately cuckoo as well. Which was reason enough for him to sound distorted and queer without even addressing the fact that the bastard hadn't even really been _alive_ —at least, not alive in the normal sense. Little known was the fact that, during the years after his resurrection, Voldemort had required constant conditioning and maintenance of his new physical form. Severus himself had brewed most of the potions, particularly when the first Potions Masters' concoctions had proved unsatisfactory for Voldemort. For, although he had walked and lorded around like any mortal, the truth of the matter was that, due to the Holcrux's toll on his being, Voldemort had not actually been mortal in the traditional sense. He had, simply put, been a piece of a soul walking around in a corpse. Which no doubt added to his less than stable mental state.

But Luna was not a walking corpse, nor was she insane.

_Was she?_

Rising from his crouch, Severus brushed the dirt from his hands, his expression gone impossibly dark and furrowed. _Was_ Luna Lovegood insane? A certain part of him—the disgusting, sentimental part—refused to believe as such; for while the blonde nymphet was undeniably touched, his scant memory of her told him that she had always been so. It was simply the way she was, as she had explained. But her eccentricity did not make her crazy.

But he couldn't exactly condone her episodes as sane behavior.

He sighed. This was so bloody _frustrating_. Truly. Severus was not typically one to stand by and just watch things happen; for the last seventeen years he had done everything in his power to contribute to the world at large. But this . . . this was almost unbearable. The two avenues he might have taken to make some impactful difference were blocked; one by sheer impracticality, and one by the girl's damnable stubbornness. It still baffled him how she refused to talk—to anyone! He did not even half expect her to confess to him, but in his experience, young adults usually needed _someone_ to be their confidant. But she refused even to broach the subject, which was irritating enough on its own without her bloody reasoning. Which he understood, to some extent—her reasoning, that was. He certainly understood for why he himself never really talked to anyone about what had been done to him, much less the things he himself had done. But he had been conditioned to that kind of depravity and violence, since he was very young. He was more than capable of coping on his own, but her?

He could rant endlessly about the delirium of it all, but the point was that he was limited. And these limitations prevented him from helping or doing anything mildly useful.

Except, it seemed, play nanny.

He sneered at himself nastily. Oh yes. Severus Snape, mother-hen extraordinaire. How did one explain that? He supposed he could chalk it up to the fact that, technically speaking, he owed Lovegood a life-debt for saving him. But that was a cop-out if he ever uttered one.

But, if there was underlying truth in the matter, it was this:

Most days, he could not remember why he bothered waking up. He wondered why trouble himself with going through the motions of the day when he could just as easily swallow poison and save himself the trouble of trudging aimlessly through the next few bleak decades of his life. He wondered why he bothered living, now when he had no tangible purpose or use.

But, on the days he saw Luna, none of that seemed to matter.

And so, he went to go see her. Just a few hours, but every single day that week, promptly at lunchtime, after the Mungo's team and Pomfrey had performed their daily treatments.

 

//

 

Never before would he have thought to spend so much time in the company of a young girl. Hell, he couldn't have even fathomed it; but, as it happened, he fell into the rhythm of it quite easily. He ate lunch with her (sometimes; other times, he simply sat with her while she ate measly amounts); they talked. Sometimes, he would bring books and read to her; she always seemed inexplicably content to simply listen to the sound of his voice, no matter the material. At Poppy's instruction, he did not bring her schoolwork to her (too much strain, she said), but he gave her a few casual lectures in keeping with her studies, and smuggled her a few textbooks. He even played games with her (he flat out refused to play exploding snap, but he was game for wizard's chess, and the Ravenclaw was a more than adequate adversary). Sometimes, when she was too worn out for anything else, he conjured up a harp or other instrument, and charmed it to play quietly so they could simply sit and listen.

Every time he saw her, she gave him her brightest smile; but despite this, she continued to look more haggard and weary than the day before. The circles under her eyes were the size of teaspoons now, and far darker in color; it made her bright blue eyes seem huge. Though she tried to eat, she seemed smaller and thinner every time he saw her.

He'd asked Poppy about her condition; and though the mediwitch couldn't be swayed to share any confidential information, she did tell him that Luna had been having consistent night-terrors. None so severe as the first episode, but enough to where she had to be restrained and given a mild sedative.

Occasionally, when he arrived, the Mungo's team was still conducting their treatments and testing. Interestingly, instead of being made to wait outside, he was welcomed in by a younger man with a badge that read Dr. Bryan Melrough ( _tall, blonde, nice eyebrows_ ) and asked to stand a few paces back whilst he and his one other team member finished up.

Dutifully, Severus leaned against the private ward's wall, looking very much like his bat-like old self, surveying the scene critically. Apparently after the first incident, the Mungo's team had decided that keeping the number of personnel in Luna's presence to a minimum was the wisest course of action; most often, it was the tall blonde mediwizard with one other assistant. Pomfrey remained in the room at all times to act as a familiar, reassuring presence. Although Luna seemed to be liking Melrough well enough.

Severus couldn't help but narrow his eyes angrily as Luna said something that made Dr. Melrough laugh, Luna herself smiling warmly.

He had to clench his fists at his sides to keep from strangling the younger man as he patted Luna's small shoulder affectionately.

As Dr. Melrough exited, he always looked directly at Severus; he never said anything, merely addressed him with his eyes, gave him a nod of recognition. It was all Severus could do not to snarl at the man.

But the tension stirring within him never lasted. Ten minutes into talking with Luna, and all was forgotten.

 

//

 

" _i have found what you are like the rain,_

 _(Who feathers frightened fields_ _with the superior dust-of-sleep. Wields_

_easily the pale club of the wind"_

She had brought him Byron. Now that he looked back on it, it seemed so fitting that she would know exactly what he might like. His knowledge of poetry was inadequate at best, but he surmised that e.e. cummings was probably both bizarre and delicate enough to be just her cup of tea.

_"and swirled justly souls of flower strike_

_the air in utterable coolness_

_deeds of green thrilling light_ _with thinned_

_newfragile yellows"_

And, judging by the rapt, almost ravenous way she watched the movement of his lips, he might have been right.

_"_ _lurch_

— _in the woods_ _which_ _stutter_ _and_

 _sing_ _And the coolness of your smile is_ _stirringofbirds between my arms;but_ _i should rather than anything_ _have(almost when hugeness will shut_ _quietly)almost,_ _your kiss"_

"That was lovely."

Severus, keeping his expression cool, closed the slim book, setting it on his lap. "It was."

"A bit romantic, I suppose."

"Well, _I_ didn't write it." He tried not to sound too defensive.

"No. But you sang it very romantically."

He lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. She had recently taken to calling his intonations "singing", and he hadn't really bothered to correct her or point out that he most certainly did not sing.

 

//

 

She did try and trick him into it once, though.

"Tell me a story, Professor. I feel like a story right now. and I love the sound of your voice."

" _'Sir'_ ; I am not your professor. And, as incredible a shock as this may be, I do not know any stories."

"Make one up. Use your imagination."

He sighed. "I sincerely doubt that I _have_ any imagination left in me, Ms. Lovegood."

" _Luna_. And that's fine. You can just sing me a song instead if you li—"

"—Once upon a bloody time. . ."

 

//

 

It was difficult, but he managed not to mention or even bring up the subject of Luna's night terrors or trauma. It was not his job, he told himself firmly. He was not a trained medi-wizard; and he certainly did not want to make her feel any kind of uncomfortable around him. His duty in this entire affair, it seemed, was to provide her with a sense of relief. And he would stick to that role, as much as it pained him to see her growing more waxen every day.

Though, to be fair, he probably looked no better.

This, though, was mostly due to his research, the research in regards to her. In the privacy of his lab, his endless scouring for a solution had turned up dead end after dead end. At this point, he was no longer even looking merely at potions, but actual spells and rites (again, avoiding anything to do with Dark Magics). Even still, the work was doing little more than frustrating him and depriving him of sleep.

He considered, off and on, that it was foolish of him to be digging for answers when he did not even know the properties of the question. That is, in as far as he knew, no one could yet figure out what exactly was wrong with the girl—which made searching for a solution a bit of a foolhardy task. Obviously, it was to do with post-traumatic stress; but the extent to which it affected her was inconsistent with her peers and other subjects. That is, most of the kids who were waking up screaming in the middle of the night were doing just that: waking up. They weren't tearing hospital bedding to shreds, letting loose haywire sparks of magic, or acting as though possessed. Leave it to Loony Lovegood to be atypical.

When not in his private lab or with Luna, he tended to spend most of his time prying open ancient tomes at the library, scaring all of the students and generally being a silent, well-behaved menace.

Which was how he was found by Dr. Melrough, Friday afternoon.

All week, he had been dreading the coming of the weekend with a horrendous passion he had never known. And all simply because the weekend marked the time for the Mungo's team to make their decision: whether or not to commit Luna Lovegood as a mentally debilitated witch.

Since no one was keeping him informed (unless he ceaselessly badgered them into submission), he did not yet know whether or not said decision had been made. As a result, his visit with Luna that Friday had been somewhat tense. Fortunately for him (and when he thought about it as "fortunate" he wanted to kick himself) Luna had a particularly bad episode the night before, and was much too tired to do anything but listen to a bit of music and listen to him read. She didn't even manage to eat anything, but he made sure she drank her potions, and a mug of tea before leaving her to doze off.

As soon as he'd left the infirm, he headed to the library. The tension that had been building up in him all week was peaking, and he knew that if ever there was a time to devote his energy to work, it was now.

So, as was his custom, he gathered a mountain of books to start with, and secured himself a secluded table in the far corner of the library.

He was pouring over a stress and meditation manual when he suddenly realized that someone had entered the sanctum of his study space.

Suppressing a growl, he jerked his head up to find none other than the tall, blonde Dr. Melrough standing before him.

There were a few beats of incredibly awkward silence during which Melrough stared at him uncertainly and Severus threw him a glare two shades short of demonic. After staring for a few moments into Severus' inky black eyes, Melrough looked around the book-covered table, and cleared his throat.

"Quite a selection you've got, sir. What are you doing, may I ask?"

Severus favored him another long, deliciously loathsome pause.

". . .research."

"Ah," Melrough nodded, as if this explained everything. Whilst the doctor fidgeted uncomfortably, Severus took a moment to assess the man before him. He was dressed in the traditional dark blue robes of St. Mungo's, with the hospital's crest pinned on one breast. He was, Severus judged, a good few inches taller than himself, though far less imposing; his face was much too pleasant, and this effect was only increased by his youth. Severus would have guessed late twenties.

For some reason, Severus gaze lingered on the man's eyebrows.

"So . . . I am assuming that this is research for the Lovegood case."

"I am conducting research on behalf of Miss Lovegood, yes," he bit out, dragging his gaze downwards to look the young man in the eye.

"Ah. How's it coming?"

"How do you _think_?"

Dr. Melrough held up a hand. "I apologize; I didn't mean to offend. I was just wondering if you'd gotten any farther than we had."

He could not help but scoff. "If I _did_ , do you think she would still be in the infirmary?"

Melrough shook his head. "No. No, I suppose not."

Dog-earing his page and closing his book, Severus drew himself up as much as he could whilst still sitting down, folding his arms and fixing the younger man with a stare that had most first years pissing in their pants. "Is there something you came to speak with me about? As you can see, I have quite a bit of work to do," he gestured at the rest of the books.

Seeing that he wasn't likely to get much hospitality from Severus, Melrough ignored his harsh attitude, and instead responded mildly, "Yes, actually, if you have a moment."

Giving the man another hard, long look, Severus pointed to the bench opposite him. "Fine. Sit."

Complying, Dr. Melrough planted one long leg over the bench, and swung around the other as he sat down. "It is about Miss Lovegood."

He _just barely_ stopped from rolling his eyes. "Obviously."

Melrough ignored him. "We haven't come any closer to helping her—or figuring out what exactly the problem is. Most patients with post-traumatic stress do not behave as she does, and she won't share anything more about what happened to her. We're at something of a loss."

Severus considered him, listening to his own qualms being recited to him.

"I and Dr. Y'por have tried asking her on multiple occasions to divulge information about what happened at Malfoy Manor. But she refuses to talk about it, so all we have to go on is the scant report she gave that's on file. It really isn't much; she just listed events, without detail. You are the only visitor she's had, aside from Mr. Malfoy, who has not been actually admitted to see her. Has she . . . told you anything?"

"No."

"You are certain? Not even a little detail?"

For some reason, these inane questions didn't irk him as much as they should have. Perhaps it was the concern—genuine concern—that he detected in Melrough's voice. Perhaps he was simply weary. But his next response, far from being bilious, was only tired.

"No. She will not speak to me. As I understand it, she will not speak to anyone."

Dr. Melrough brought a hand up to massage his temple. "Yes. So it would seem."

"What is your decision, then? If you cannot determine what exactly is the matter with her, you cannot reasonably commit her—"

"Actually, we can, and most of my team seems to think that committing her is the best idea," Dr. Melrough said matter-of-factly, crossing his own arms. "As far as we can tell, there is no pattern to her outbursts, and there is no way of treating them, which makes her a possible danger to herself and others—"

"But she is _not_ crazy—"

(Merlin, did he really just say that about Luna Lovegood?)

"Can you verify that? Where is your proof? If you have any, any at all, please bring it forward." Dr. Melrough searched his face with serious eyes. "I personally do not think she should be committed; actually, I think it would be the worst thing for her. She reacted very badly the first time the team tried to examine her; I doubt the Mental Matters ward will be any better."

 _No. No, it would be a bloody picnic_. A well of unease swooped in upon him, thinking of Luna locked up in the Mental Matters ward; while, at the same time, a certain calm washed over him. As much as he disliked Melrough . . . or thought he disliked him . . . the man was sensible. Was seeing sense. Was on his side. And hers.

After a pause, Dr. Melrough spoke up again. "We were given a week to make a diagnosis. We still haven't come to a unanimous decision. Post-traumatic stress patients are my specialty; I myself conducting extensive research on it. So, while technically I could be overruled, the rest of the team has taken my stance into consideration. She is being given another week. More, if I ask. But the rest of the team is needed back at St. Mungo's, so I will be the only one remaining."

Relief. Sweet, luxurious, amazing relief. He could have slumped forward and just relished in the feeling if it weren't for all the books in his way. Damn things.

Instead, he nodded and said, "I see. But if you do not mind my asking . . . why are you telling _me_ this?"

At his words, Dr. Melrough gave a soft smile. "Because it's obvious that you care about her. She has no family. If you're as much a friend to her as you seem to be, I thought you had the right to know. And . . . I was wondering if you might be able to help me."

Severus' brows raised. "Really? You do remember that I nearly tore you and your lot apart, don't you?"

Melrough uttered something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. "Yes, well . . . you were fearsome, I'll give you that. But I could use your intellect and expertise. You have a very impressive record . . . minus the whole Deatheater bit." He waved a hand.

Severus smirked. He knew for a fact that said "bit" took up more than a substantial amount of whatever record the Ministry had of him.

"I would be glad to aid you in any way I can," he said at last. "Although, I will say that most avenues my studies have taken resulted in nothing useful."

Melrough shrugged. "That's fine; you probably got a lot further along than our team analyst did. He's . . . well, he's basically incompetent."

Severus snorted. "There is a veritable wealth of such people in the world, you'll come to find."

Melrough smiled lightly, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah." He paused, looking around at Severus' heavily laden work-table; then, with an air of finality, he stood. "Well," he said, stepping back over the bench, "I suppose I shall leave you to it. Is there a time you would like to meet to discuss this? Tomorrow, possibly?"

Severus nodded. "Yes. I assume you will be with Miss Lovegood most of the morning?"

"Yes. And you the afternoon?"

"Yes. So let us convene at four tomorrow . . . in my chambers, if you like. Most of my notes are in my private laboratory anyways."

"Great." The smile that lit the doctor's face was genuine, and something about it pleased Severus. Perhaps it was the simple fact of knowing that the physician overseeing Luna's recovering genuinely did care for her, instead of seeing her as another nameless, faceless patient.

Melrough was about to turn and leave when he paused. Looking over his shoulder, he said:

"Since I am in charge of the Lovegood case now, I am also in charge of her recuperative restrictions. My colleagues did not think it wise to admit students to see her . . . but if Mr. Malfoy still has a wish to, he is welcome by me."

"Thank you. I will tell him."

He didn't smile. Not quite.


	8. Crescent

As Severus expected, Luna was positively overjoyed to have a visit from Draco – if her nearly toppling out of bed was anything to go by.

"Draco!" she exclaimed, righting herself (quickly enough to miss Severus nearly startling forward in a would-be futile attempt to catch her; Draco, however, gave him an odd glance). "Hi!"

She beamed with all of the intensity of the sun at Draco, who grinned back at her sheepishly. After a questioning look at Severus, who merely nodded, he crossed the space between them, coming around one side of the bed to pull her into a hug.

"Hello, Luna," he returned somewhat solemnly, pulling back a bit to look at her. Luna smiled a bit, and Severus got the feeling he'd been more or less forgotten.

Ignoring the pang of . . . whatever bloody emotion it was, he schooled his features into something that could be called impassive, and intoned, just loud enough for them to hear, "I'll leave you two alone, then."

If they acknowledged him, he didn't hear it. He simply pivoted on his heel and tried not to stalk out of the room.

Once the private ward's door was shut firmly behind him, he leaned his back against the wall beside it, letting a dry sigh escape him. He brought a hand to the bridge of his nose and pinched, as if to alleviate a headache. He supposed he could liken his situation to a headache: a constant, nagging plague, ebbing and surging at odd times.

He sighed again, letting himself sink into almost a full slump against the wall. This was becoming rather ridiculous, this feeling. If he closed his eyes, he could see Draco and Luna again, their heartfelt embrace; so sweet, so caring. He should have felt gratified, pleased to know that he'd managed to bring it about, and he did – but that didn't dissuade the minor niggling of anger that circled the perimeter of his conscious, dangling at the edge of his tongue.

He was doing his very best not to think about what Draco and Luna might be talking about (or doing) when he heard the approach of footsteps.

Thinking it Poppy, his mouth set itself in a hard line—but said line almost automatically smoothed out when he saw the genial face of Dr. Melrough.

"Mr. Snape," he greeted, tucking a thick manila folder under his arm.

Severus gave him a cursory once-over, suddenly feeling very tired. "Dr. Melrough."

The doctor smiled, though his gaze as he took in Severus' countenance was observant and sharply analytical. His eyes took in Severus' telling posture, moving to his pale, haggard face, to the hand that was (unknowingly) slightly clenched at his side. He then looked to the closed door; he nodded to it, gesticulating.

"Is Mr. Malfoy in there?"

Wordlessly, Severus nodded.

In all honesty, Severus did not feel like talking to the young doctor at the moment, or to anyone at all really. But he would have preferred speech of any sort to the sound that suddenly began coming from the room, muffled though it was.

Sobbing.

Severus stared down at the stone-work floor, the timid sound freezing his mind. He had not heard Draco sob often (only five instances that he could remember, in all his years of knowing the young man), but the sound of it was unmistakable.

He and the doctor stood awkwardly in the not-quite silence, listening to the almost inaudible sounds of the young, blonde-haired Slytherin weeping.

Finally, Melrough re-hitched the papers under his arm and murmured, "I was going back in to have Luna answer a few more questions . . . but I suppose it can wait. It sounds as though they need some time alone."

Severus nodded dumbly.

Seeing that his message was not coming across, Dr. Melrough made the addendum, "I need to run some tests before we convene this afternoon, and I've been given permission to use the student laboratories. Would you mind showing me where they are?"

Severus looked at him, then at the door beside him. "I . . . I do not think Madame Pomfrey would approve if I were to leave them totally unsupervised."

Dr. Melrough shrugged one blue-clad shoulder. "Madame Pomfrey is out of office today. As far as I am concerned, neither of them are in any danger. The attacks are specifically nocturnal occurrences. Also, the nurses' aid—Maggie? — is flitting about somewhere, and she knows how to contact me. I've been given temporary Apparition permission, so I can be present at a moment's notice if needed."

He continued to stare at the doctor; oddly, he found himself very unwilling to move from the spot. "Out of office?" he echoed.

"As I understand it, she's in a staff conference; Headmistress McGonagall just got back this morning, and I am assuming that she's assembled the faculty for updates."

He felt something slide around in his stomach uneasily. He noticed, in a vague sort of way, that the sobbing was growing fainter and fainter.

Dr. Melrough watched him, his expression having softened. "They will be fine, Mr. Snape," he murmured.

Severus did not look at him; he merely continued to stare at the ground for another long minute. Then, lips thinning out into a resigned line, he straightened and pushed away from the wall, an authoritative set to his shoulders. He brushed past Dr. Melrough slightly more brusquely than he intended, and muttered in passing, "This way, then."

Smiling once more, Dr. Melrough turned and fell in step behind Severus, his long strides carefully matched a pace behind the Potions Master's. As they neared the other end of the infirmary, he noted mildly:—

"It was good of you to bring him to see her. From what I can see, he's a nice young man. It's good that she has him."

Severus said nothing. His stomach clenched.

 

//

 

After taking Dr. Melrough to the student labs and bidding him adieu until later, Severus spent another good hour walking around the school. It seemed that this ritualistic pacing was becoming a habit of his when his mind was in turmoil. Which was all good in dandy during the night-time, when there were no students unlucky enough to be in his presence; but day-time wandering was a different matter. Even though it was Sunday and most students were either at Hogsmeade or relaxing or studying in their dorms, he still managed to come across and thoroughly spook a couple of students coming back from the library before returning to the infirmary.

Just as he came to be fifteen feet away from the single door to the private ward, it opened, and Draco Malfoy slipped out, looking down and shoving a slip of paper into his pocket.

Though he did not stop his gait completely, Severus slowed his stride, and used the lengthened period between him and Draco to study the younger man.

Draco's eyes were downcast and now dry, though the redness rimming the edges of his silver orbs evidenced the recent crying, as did his slightly flushed cheeks. His shoulders were hunched uncharacteristically, and, if Severus peered closely enough at him, he thought he could detect a slight tremor in Draco's lean form.

When Severus was a foot away from him, Draco looked up. He gave Severus something that was probably supposed to be a smile but failed epically in that regard; the boy looked positively miserable.

The distress he saw in his godson twisted something inside him; sometimes, it was easy to forget that he and Lovegood weren't the only people in his periphery. That there was indeed a person or two whose suffering he did still care about.

Before Severus could even articulate how to break the silence, Draco's faux-bright expression spluttered, shriveled and died, the not-smile slipping off his face painfully. The pale column of his throat bobbed with a heavy swallow.

"I could have – I could have stopped—"

And before either man knew what was happening, Draco's quicksilver eyes were shining, and tears sprang forth anew. And, as Severus put an arm around Draco and held the boy tightly, he was unable to see how he could begrudge his godson anything.

 

//

 

It had taken the better part of an hour to calm Draco down and talk some sense back into him. It had taken two cups of tea, and (when Severus could think of nothing else) a tumbler of something amber and bittersweet to put an end to the morbid anxiety that had overtaken him. It had taken a blazing fire in his private quarters; it had taken opposite ends of his forest-green sofa, and then just one end; it had taken Severus remembering how to be a godfather, how to be a mentor and friend, had taken holding Draco as he hadn't done since he was five. It had taken patience. Attentiveness. And, in the end, severity and sternness.

"You are not responsible for your father's actions," he said slowly and quietly, holding Draco at arm's-length, inky black irises boring into misty silver.

"He only _gave_ her to them because of me and Mother," Draco spat. His words were rank with bitterness, but Severus knew it was not directed at him. Or even Lucius, really.

Severus steeled himself. He breathed deeply, in and out. Inhale. Exhale. He'd survived nearly two decades of screaming, hormonal teenagers; after that, this was a cakewalk. Theoretically.

"Lucius . . . your father's only interest was to put you and your mother out of harm's way. He did the only thing it was in his power to do in order to protect you."

This time, Draco did shoot him a look from beneath his furrowed blonde brow: rage, mixed with desperation and anguish. "How can you even _say_ that?! How can you look at it so—so— _clinically_ and justify what happ—"

_"I justify_ _**nothing** _ _of the sort!"_

The shock on Draco's pale face flung his own words back in his face, like a visual echo. Damn it. He was supposed to be the even-tempered adult here; in control.

But Draco, in all his blind turmoil, was treading on dangerous ground. And it was Severus' turn to react.

"What was done to her was _monstrous_ ," he snarled, watching emotions flicker across Draco's fair face. "There is no _justifying_ that. All I am trying to tell you is that Lucius did the _only bloody thing_ _he could."_ He paused. Inhale.

Draco took his fleeting silence as permission to speak.

"He all but handed her to death. She looked—" Draco swallowed. He looked down at his hands, slowly curling and uncurling his pale fingers.

"They would be down with her for hours," he whispered, voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. "I never heard anything—no screaming. But I knew. Deatheaters would come and stay at the Manor like it was a half-way house, and Father . . . he just let them down into the cellar. . .

"And then one day—the day before the Order came—a group of five of them went down into the cellar, and four came right back up. They said—" a strangled sob, "—that she wasn't breathing. That she was no fun anymore. Only Macnair—he—he stayed and—" Draco shuddered and screwed his eyes shut. "She was nothing more than a stringy mass of b-bones and blood when the Order brought her up from the cellar. She—I didn't believe it at first, that she was alive. She was so—just completely _disfigured_. And my dad just _let_ happen."

Severus felt his eyes fluttered closed, and he cursed himself silently. _No. open your eyes damn it. Look him in the face when you tell him this. He has known so few adults that can do as much, you owe it to him._

When Severus forced his eyes back open, Draco was still staring at him with that lost, rueful look.

"He did it because he loves you, Draco. He is not a kind man, or a merciful man. But he does love you. If he had any qualms before about handing her over, then their threatening you and your mother eradicated them cleanly from his conscious. I imagine . . ." he swallowed. "I imagine he would have sacrificed anything and everything before he let them touch either of you. To him . . . one girl was a small price."

Draco frowned deeply, staring into his half-empty tumbler. "Thanks, sir. That makes me feel _loads_ better—"

"I am pas the point of trying to make you feel better. I am telling you as one adult to another, this is the way things are. Accept them. Make the best of them. Move on. You cannot help her by wallowing in misdirected guilt. Your father is serving a sentence and atoning for his crimes. Even Miss Lovegood is wise enough not to begrudge him."

Draco sniffed, and scoffed, "Luna? She couldn't hold a grudge if her life depended on it." The young boy shook his head; his blonde hair had gotten longer, and was currently falling into his eyes, obstructing them from view.

"She's so . . . so _different_ ," he murmured, and Severus thought he detected something reverential in his voice. "So serene and unconcerned and just _okay_ with the way things are. It's unnatural. I mean . . .even before I . . . stopped obeying my aunt and You Know Who's orders, she treated me just like everyone else. From day one, no matter how mean or nasty I was, or how often I convinced Goyle to steal her shoes. . . ." He hung his head further. "Merlin. I feel like such an arse."

"Arse or no, she likes you regardless. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Draco."

Draco heaved a sigh, but said nothing. They sat in silence for a long while after that, Severus watched his godson whilst Draco stared into the cheery fire in the grate, occasionally sipping on his drink. Once most of his drink was gone, he set his tumbler down on the adjacent table, and slowly stood. He looked at Severus, as if unsure what to say.

"I, erm . . . well, thank you, sir—"

Severus rose with him, and placed one firm hand reassuringly on his shoulder. He gazed at Draco with all seriousness and familiarity.

"Of course, Draco." And then: "Anytime."

Draco nodded. Severus turned, and Draco followed him to the door of his chambers. Whilst Severus waved a hand over the doorway, willing it to open, Draco commented from behind:

"I'm glad . . . glad that you didn't die, sir. I'm not sure what I'd do."

As the door opened, Severus turned, black eyes moving to Draco once more. His lips curled faintly upwards, the ghost of a sardonic smile.

"I am beginning to be glad of it as well."

 

//

 

The next day, Severus' trek to the infirmary took almost twice as long as usual. He took no detours and made no stops; it was simply that his customary formidable stride had been subliminally abandoned for a much slower, contemplative pace.

Which, given all accounts, was fairly unsurprising. He had a great deal to think about.

His meeting with Dr. Melrough the other day had been a number of things: frustrating, curious, informative, befuddling, entertaining. Dr. Melrough was an engaging man, Severus came to find, with a wonderfully inquisitive mind (a drastic about-face from the ignoramuses he normally engaged with). He had spent the first hour listening to Severus explain to him how the Potions Master himself had approached the problem, and the subsequent difficulties and failures with each possible solution. Melrough took notes, had only stopped his presentation twice for questions, and (to Severus' immense relief) was enough of a potions buff to understand most of the finer points of the problems Severus had run into.

For the next half-hour, Dr. Melrough had explained the basics of trauma, its effects on the body and mind, and gave a brief outline of the theory and history of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He shared the notes and analysis of Luna Lovegood's mental, physical, and magical state via the tests he and his team had run.

"At first," the doctor explained, "we were sure that Miss Lovegood was suffering from nothing more than PTSD, as I've described to you. Some of the symptoms we initially observed were congruent with past studies of the disorder: her fits, the loss of magical control. But the rest of her behavior . . . it's not as consistent. Most of the time, she exhibits very few psychological symptoms of trauma. Other than being constantly fatigued, she behaves like an ordinary, chipper young girl."

"So, you do not believe that this PTSD encompasses the entirety of her problem," Severus supplied.

Dr. Melrough nodded. "Exactly. Unfortunately – or perhaps, fortunately—I cannot conclude anything else, since I have never witnessed a major episode, only the minor ones she's been having lately." He paused, blonde brow furrowing. "Actually, that brings me to another point I find odd. Though her ordeal at Malfoy Manor occurred about a month or more ago, I did not find record of any other incidents on file."

Severus shook his head. "There weren't any, from what I . . ."

_. . . and mine was singing back._

Dr. Melrough was observing him curiously. "What?"

Severus tapped the book that was laid out before him with a forefinger. "I found her out of bed one night, after curfew. It would have been about three or four weeks after Malfoy Manor. At one point, when I was speaking to her, she . . ."

"What?"

"It is difficult to explain. But she was not herself. It was almost as if some other being were in possession of her. But," he folded his arms, "it only lasted for a moment."

The look Doctor Melrough was giving him now was one of intrigue. As if Severus were a new, fascinating breed of insect.

"I read the file, you know—her report," Dr. Melrough said, keeping that same interested gaze. "Her list. Starved. Raped. Stabbed. Head trauma. Crucioed. Subjected to a number of other unpleasant hexes and curses. She had lacerations up and down her legs. Words carved into her stomach and back. Some of her hair had been ripped from her skull. Have you seen the images?"

Severus shook his head slowly, but Draco's words echoed in his mind. His mouth had abruptly gone very dry.

Pulling out his briefcase, Dr. Melrough rummaged through the tabs of a built-in binder until he managed to produce a handful of stationary photos. He placed neatly before Severus.

Noting the miniscule, split-second of a tremor in his hands, Severus reached for them. . . .

And he thanked Salazar, Merlin, and Godric-fucking-Gryffindor that the images were not animated. He had seen his fair share of blood and gore; but looking at that mangled mass and thinking that it was Luna . . . he might have been sick.

Because there was no way, almost _no bloody way_ that bloody tangle of limbs and blood-bleached hair should have been a living person.

As he flipped through the images—four in total, one full-body and a few of specific injury sites—he could feel the intensity of Melrough's trained gaze.

"That medi-witch, Pomfrey," he said softly, "She's a miracle-worker if I ever saw one. I examined Miss Lovegood while she was sedated; she bears almost no scarring, or any trace of the wounds in those pictures. According to her medical record, she was back on her feet and running around in five days' time. The scars healed up within a few weeks. Now, the only noticeable physicality is her missing earlobe."

"She lost that after," he heard himself say. "During the final battle at Hogwarts. She was dueling with Bellatrix. She refused to have it regrown."

"Hm. Interesting." Melrough took back the photos when Severus shoved them across the table, stuffing them back into his case. "I was told that you also suffered from some post-traumatic stress symptoms."

Involuntarily, Severus felt himself stiffen. "I did."

"But you seem to be functioning well enough now."

Severus fixed him with an icy stare.

"I am far more acclimatized to violence and torture than a sixteen-year-old girl."

 

//

 

After that, there hadn't been much else to discuss. Severus concluded that he was going to be conducting more research on any calming methods, and Dr. Melrough affirmed that he needed to do more research of his own. So the two men gathered their materials and parted with the intent of meeting at the same time and place next day.

Trudging lugubriously up a flight of stairs, Severus pursed his lips. The research that he'd managed to do after that meeting had proved more or less fruitless. It was so much more maddening to think that trauma was no the be-all end-all of the problem; it gave a viable solution even more variability. On the whole, it was quite maddening.

Not to mention exhausting.

As much as Severus hated to admit it, this ordeal was taking something of a toll on him. He felt nearly as tired as he had been those first few days recovering in the hospital wing.

Once he was within sight of the infirmary, it seemed to take forever for him to close the distance. He was no more than seven feet from the main doors when a pinched, familiar face poked itself out.

"Ah, Severus," Poppy addressed him, emerging fully from the hospital wing. A grave look was set about her face. "I am afraid I cannot admit you today."

Severus jerked to a halt in his tracks, eyes widening. "And why not?"

"Because I need to speak with you."

It was not every day that someone managed to sneak up on Severus Snape. He was—had been—a spy, after all. He was accustomed to taking in the minute details of his surroundings automatically, able to ascertain the exact positions and potential of every being in a room in a matter of seconds. Nevertheless, he could not deny that he was startled to hear Minerva's voice; quickly, he whipped around in the direction it was coming from.

She approached them in a fluster of green and black robes, hat tipped just-so atop her regal head. Her steps were brisk, and her green eyes were narrowed and dark with tension. Her facial features were tight, more drawn than usual, and her mouth quivered with something akin to worry or anger.

He tried to ignore the impending sense of foreboding as she closed the space between them. he dipped his head respectfully. "Minerva."

She did not bother with niceties or a prelude, but merely said, "My office, please, Severus. Now."

He had already opened his mouth to argue (rather irately and loudly, one might add)—but something in the locution of "now" made him stop. Closing his mouth, he reconsidered her, eyes sloping up and down her form, now detecting a degree of tension that he had initially brushed off. She had sounded angry, but not at him; in the past, she had never withheld the extent of her irritation or dissatisfaction with him, but she was obviously holding herself back now. And beyond the exasperation, he thought he detected vague pungent undertones of anxiety and worry.

So he merely nodded at her, gesticulating for her to lead the way. As he fell into step behind her though, he could not stop the slow sinking feeling that settled in his stomach.

 

//

 

And, as it turned out, this sense of foreboding was not for nothing.

When they arrived at her office, Minerva had sat him down in a chair opposite her desk, though declining to sit herself. She instead busied herself calling for tea and pacing until the little house-elf arrived with the tray. She stood to pour them both tea, standing to one side of her desk and shifting from foot to foot in a fashion one might have called nervous.

Her fidgeting was beginning to drive him nuts.

"Perhaps this would be easier if you had a seat," he suggested lightly in a tone that contained less "please" and more "for Merlin's sake, woman, _sit_ _down_ ".

As if it pained her to do so, she nodded ruefully and slowly took a seat behind her desk. She stared into her cup of tea ponderingly; Severus was tempted to speak up, but withheld, thinking it better to wait.

A solid minute passed in silence before he grew impatient.

"Assuming that you did not call me here simply to have tea, may I ask what this is about?" He set his tea on the edge of her desk, and folded his arms across his chest. "Is there a particular reason why you had to speak to me so urgently as to keep me from visiting Ms. Lovegood?"

He almost felt embarrassed, admitting his purpose for going to the infirm, but he shook the feeling aside. It was not as if his visiting Luna were any great secret; no doubt Poppy had filled her in on everything—

That thought made him pause. _Fuck_. _Poppy_. What had the woman done? Had she said something incriminating? That little—

His quickly growing-murderous internal rant was cut short by the sound of a long, slightly stifled sigh from across the desk. He looked to Minerva who, while still staring into her tea, was now frowning visibly.

"I suppose it goes without saying that, in light of recent events, Hogwarts has become a hallmark source for media attention."

He nearly snorted. That was a severe understatement.

"I have been at the Ministry for the past two weeks filing formal reports, making claims, filing paperwork, talking to the Board of Governors. And, despite being swamped with said work, I was unable, at almost any moment, to escape overhearing or reading gossip and news concerning this school. I suppose you might have noticed, but the _Daily Prophet_ has had a spread devoted to us at least every other day since . . . well, since you became acting headmaster."

She gave a pause, a window of opportunity for Severus to say something, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. He was not going to incriminate himself by saying something out of turn without knowing whether or not he was actually being accused.

Seeing that he had nothing to add, she swallowed and continued—though this time with much less confidence. "Lately, there has been— well, _yesterday_ , actually . . . not that I really think . . . oh blast, let me just show you," and here she leant down and produced a satchel that had, apparently, been resting beside her desk; undoing its ties, she produced from it a red folder, with several papers sticking out of it. Unceremoniously, and with a little venom, she slapped it down on her desk.

"I assume you are aware that certain students have been featuring prominently in the paper lately. I did not think it very concerning, for the most part. The articles about Potter and Malfoy appeared to be tawdry speculation, and the articles about Ms. Lovegood had not mentioned her name. . . but this. . . ."

Whilst she was speaking, Severus had reached over and slid the folder towards him. Splaying it open, he found himself staring in utter shock at the contents.

The page sitting directly on top looked like news article—it even bore the _Prophet's_ emblem in the upper left corner, and was in the typical type-set the _Prophet_ used. But there was no title to the spread, only the words, and, in the middle of the columns of type, a moving picture of a tall, black-clad figure sweeping down rows of beds to enter a single door at the end of the rows. The private ward.

It was only then, recognizing the door into which he watched himself repeatedly disappear, that he began scanning the language surrounding the picture. It was mostly garbled to him, but the bits and phrases that jumped out were enough to turn his stomach.

"What—what is this?"

Minerva, who had been gauging his reaction across the desk, pursed her lips. "This is a news spread that was going to feature in today's _Prophet_ ," she answered. I was on my way out of the Ministry yesterday when I was stopped by Minister Kingsley. He has an insider working at the _Prophet_ who managed to snag this before it was set and printed. So, despite the efforts that have been made to dispel all media presence, we appear to have a leak inside the school. The writer of the article keeps mentioning an 'unnamed source'; I would like to believe that this is not a student, but. . . ."

Still gaping at the article, Severus was trying to listen to Minerva's explanation, but the words kept slipping away from him, sliding over each other, as hot, sticky, dizzying anger began to well up inside him.

". . . I am inclined not to believe what the article is suggesting about you and Miss Lovegood."

An involuntary spike of panic followed those words, and he jerked his head up to look at Minerva; but her face was carefully calm and platitudinal, her eyes dutifully looking down and not at him. There was nothing accusatory in her; actually, her countenance reminded him remarkably of Dumbledore's adopted ignorance when he did not wish to press a delicate matter. She continued, quietly and with all manner of propriety:

"From what Poppy has told me, it seems highly unlikely that the situation is as . . . 'unwholesome' as the article wants readers to believe." A grimace here, that he shared inwardly. "I do not seek any kind of admission or oath from you; I trust your judgment and governance over your own actions. I do not need an explanation—actually, I don't really _want_ one, to be honest. But you see how damaging it could be—not only to you, but to Ms. Lovegood and the school."

Rules of conversation dictated that it was his turn to speak up and say something; he got only a little further than opening his mouth, rage and incredulity pulsing too vibrantly through his bloodstream to formulate any proper words. "I. . . ."

"My other concern is for your godson, Mr. Malfoy. Those pictures of him and Potter that were printed previously were fairly innocent. But if you'll turn the page . . ."

She waited perhaps half a second for him to do so, and when he did not (he could not seem to make himself do anything but grind his teeth) she reached across and did so for him. on the next page was another potential news item, this one also without a title and also accompanied by a moving picture.

"Well," Minerva cleared her throat. "That is— there are only so many things they could be doing, standing that close."

"Both—" he swallowed thickly the hot emotion at the back of his throat, noting thankfully that his anger was beginning to recede somewhat. "Both of these photographs were taken from inside the school."

It was not quite a question, but she answered it as if it were. "Yes. As I said, I do not want to think a student would be responsible for this, but I cannot rule out any possibilities yet. Though my bet is on Skeeter. The articles have a certain familiar lewdness to them."

"Skeeter is not on the prophet staff any longer."

Minerva shook her head in affirmation. "No, not officially. But, if you are a prominent newspaper, you don't just let go of a staff member like Skeeter. Actually, not being an official member of staff must make undercover work all the more facile for her, though she probably is missing the limelight desperately—but that isn't the point. The point is that while this—" she gestured awkwardly, "—while this leak remains at large and unidentified, I cannot allow you to make your visits to the infirmary. The situation is easy to manipulate from their standpoint, and it would be the height of any reporter's career to be able to make a scoundrel out of you now that you are a public hero. I am sorry, Severus."

He said nothing, choosing to glare moodily at the open folder, burning two holes into the picture of Harry and Draco doing—well, doing whatever it was that young, healthy, nubile boys did whilst standing that closely.

"Of course, that will not stop you from your research." At these words, his head snapped up to look at her once again; she leveled with his gaze, noting the tint of surprise in those ebony eyes. "Dr. Melrough told me about the collaboration between the two of you. I approve mightily, so carry on. And since you are still making potions for Poppy on a regular basis, I see no reason you cannot confer with her about the patient's well-being. But for now, I must insist upon no contact. "

For a moment, he thought she was going to repeat the sentiment of "I am sorry", but thankfully she held herself back, saying nothing. In fact, nearly a full minute passed by in silence before he realized that she was waiting for him to make some sort of move, a closing maneuver perhaps that she was unsure how to make herself.

Taking in a deep, calming breath, he slowly pushed himself up from his seat. Reaching down, he collected the folder and its contents, tucking them firmly at his side. "I will be taking this," he stated, curling a lip in a half-snarl, "I think it might look attractive in my fireplace. If you have nothing further to add . . . ?"

Minerva stood as well, nodding and smoothing out her dark green robes. "Yes, tha—what is it?" she inquired suddenly, noting the strange, almost expectant way he was looking at her.

"That is all? No riddle or words of advice from the resident Headmistress?"

She stared at him somewhat blankly for a second before realization dawned on her tired features. "I did not read that in the job description," she replied dryly, granting him a soft smile.

"See the fine print; I am sure you will find it. It is a binding clause, I'm afraid."

For the first time since he had seen her after Dumbledore's death, Minerva laughed—snorted actually, and incredulously at that. "Oh really? And what kind of _wise_ and _deeply spiritual_ advice did _you_ give, pray tell?"

"My advice was always more practical than spiritual."

"Such as?"

"Don't piss of the Carrows."

 

//

 

Severus was pleased.

No scratch that—he was still absolutely furious. But he was rather proud of himself for the way he handled the impromptu meeting with Minerva. It could have easily been very ugly; his former self would have taken the news badly, probably would have ended up screaming at the overworked, overstressed woman that he could, in a certain sense, once again call a friend. The old Severus might have seen the meeting in and of itself as an attack on his person, on his integrity, would have blamed Minerva outright even though she was only being sensible.

And that, he thought as he marched along the quiet, darkened corridor, was the truth of it. Minerva was nothing if not sensible; one could never accuse her of over-reacting or blowing a situation out of proportion. It was one of those distinctly non-Gryffindor attributes of hers: she could assess a situation objectively and decide what needed to be done based on facts and probable outcomes without interjecting personal bias. She was completely right. He would be doing no good by Luna if his presence caused any sort of scandal; it wasn't as though she needed any further detriment to recovery. It was all perfectly reasonable.

But, plausible or no, _prudent_ or no, it still did not stop him from having more anger than he knew what to rightly do with.

And since preoccupying vexation was not generally conducive to fruitful study, this evening found him wandering the halls instead of cooped up in his rooms, where his search for answers was turning stale.

So, he paced along down the hallways with an irritated gait, eyes taking in everything and nothing, most of his attention consumed by the thoughts swirling around in his head.

Knowing better than to keep for long in the company of others, he had kept his meeting with Melrough rather short. The doctor, of course, had been informed on the situation, and though Severus was relieved to see that the man seemed to be of the same opinion as Minerva (he had detected no suspicion in either his manners or clinical gaze), he could not help but be short and curt when talking with him.

But Melrough seemed not to take offense; on the contrary, he didn't seem to take in the irritability that Severus had dished out on him, instead seeming very preoccupied, often staring over Severus' shoulder at nothing or fixating on the long rows of buttons on Severus' robes.

"St. Mungo's is expecting a diagnosis from me within the week," Melrough had stated rather gravely. "The only way she can be pronounced sane—or, at least, not to be committed—is to a) identify her condition as treatable, and b) have two persons of authority vouch for her. This makes the predicament all the more complex. I am not yet sure what her affliction is, so I cannot confirm it treatable. And, though I can vouch for Ms. Lovegood, you will not be considered a reliable second-voucher, because your authority is under a certain amount of suspicion. She has no surviving family, is that right? No guardian or relative?"

He shook his head and swallowed the tirade of sarcasm and venom that threatened to spill forth, while Melrough stewed quietly in his own thoughts.

"I think . . . I may have a theory," he had admitted finally. He brought his gaze from where it had settled on a particular button about half-way down Severus' chest up to his face. For the first time, the doctor looked genuinely tired—and slightly wary. "I mean, statistically, realistically speaking, the possibility is almost completely improbable . . . I need to run some more tests, do more research, and there is no way to be completely positive . . . the condition is so rare. . . ."

A strange sensation bubbled in Severus' chest, something like anticipation, momentarily displacing his anger. "What is it?" he pried.

But the doctor only shook his head, blonde eyebrows furrowing together ruefully. "I—I don't want to say just yet. I need to contact a colleague of mine and confer with her . . . I'll get back to you on it as soon as I find anything substantial."

And, despite his curiosity, Severus nodded and pressed no further, instead saying, "Is L— does Miss Lovegood—?"

"She's been informed of the situation," Melrough assured, "and she understands."

Taking a corner sharply, Severus' scoffed to himself. _She understands_. Did she now? Did Luna Lovegood really understand? What was the extent of her insight to the situation? Did she know what the pseudo-article actually said about them? Or did she simply know that the matter was "potentially scandalous"?

A small part of him cringed inwardly. He had felt relieved when Minerva said she did not doubt him—but it also made his blood curdle, the way she placed such implicit trust in this presumed integrity of his. How she had declined to needing a confession or explanation. Had his "acts of heroism" as they were so-called granted him such impunity? Was he really that much nobler of a person now?

 _No_ , he thought to himself. Not by a longshot.

It was not long before he found himself wandering along a familiar colonnade, the chilly air whipping in through various archways. Moonlight, dim and pale, spilled through small cracks and windows, lighting his path towards one courtyard in particular.

He often found himself coming back to Luna's memorial during his late-night, insomnia-ridden wanderings. Despite the eerie desolation it held, he also found it strangely comforting, almost as if he could feel her fey-presence there. He would stand in the silence, wander about the lonely courtyard for a bit, and then retreat back into the castle.

He had some vague notion of completing this ritual tonight—however, as he approached the small gothic archway, the sight that he glimpsed through the portal gave him pause.

Two small figures were crouched down in the dirt, a jar full of glowing white stones and a lantern between them. They were both swathed in unidentifying black robes, but the moonlight and their lantern lent enough light for him to distinguish two very different hues of hair: one platinum blonde, one messy black.

He thought about opening his mouth to make his presence verbally known, but thought better of it. Instead, he silently leaned in the archway, watching them with curious black eyes.

The boys worked diligently, mostly in silence, though he could hear a faint murmuring every once in a while. He studied the way they brushed hands whilst trading tools, the way Draco turned to talk to Potter, unabashed at how close their faces were, and how their bodies leaned into one another during lulls in the off-and-on conversation.

He surmised he could have watched them for hours without their noticing, so wrapped up they were in their task and each other.

But, some five minutes in, there was a sharp crack, like a twig snapping or ice cracking; and though the sound came from elsewhere, probably on the other side of the stone wall (and decidedly not from Severus who had been standing still as a statue), the boys both took that moment to tense-up and look around wildly.

Potter was the first to look behind them and spot the shadow in the archway.

"Holy shi—" the muggle phrase toppled out of the teenager's mouth as he jumped and gracelessly fell backwards onto the hard earth, green eyes staring startled and wide.

It was almost comical, seeing The Harry Potter startle so; to watch a boy that had faced down a distillation of evil have such a normal reaction was so absurd it was almost funny. Perhaps if he had been in a better mood, he would have snorted. But he made no sound.

Draco spun around as well, drawing his wand and leveling it to where Potter was staring, silver eyes narrowed and pale face drawn tightly.

"Who's there?" he demanded, raising his wand higher. "I am not afraid to hex you—"

Severus, having seen quite enough, took this moment to step forward, out of the shadows of the archway and into the pale light shed by the crescent moon overhead. Almost immediately, familiarity registered in Draco's eyes and he lowered his wand.

"I would rather avoid a scuffle, if it is all the same to you. I am under enough scrutiny as is," he intoned dryly.

Seeing that he and his companion were no longer threatened, Draco stuffed his wand back into his robes; Potter, for his part, continued to stare, still slightly startled.

Ignoring the brat's unapologetic gaping, Severus breezed towards them, moving languidly and taking in the site of their work. In addition to the jar of moonstones (which he had recognized immediately), he also saw two small gardening shovels and several pinprick mounds of recently overturned dirt.

"Did Lovegood put you to this?" he murmured, stopping to the left of Draco.

Draco rose to his feet, and lent a hand down to pull Potter up from his ridiculous squat. "Yes, sir," the blonde replied. "She gave me a list of names and instructions when you took me to visit her in the infirm."

Severus vaguely recalled to mind the image of a pink-faced Draco shoving a slip of paper out of sight. "I see," he heard himself say. A small stab of some idiotic emotion bit him sharply in the side of his skull. _Why did she not entrust me with this?_

As if reading his thoughts, Draco supplied further. "She was going to ask you to finish it, but she said she figured you had a lot on your plate already, sir. She said her doctor—at least, I think it was her doctor, she called him 'Bryan' — told her that you and he were doing research together. For her, that is."

Only slightly comforted, Severus said nothing, continuing to let his eyes rove over the dark, pocked earth.

"I tried to visit her today," Draco mentioned quietly. "But Madam Pomfrey said she wasn't allowed to have anymore visitors. She said even _you_ were banned."

He could imagine the way she said it too, eyes disapproving, voice authoritarian. _Even you_. It was not fair, really; Draco had only been permitted to see Luna once, and already the privilege had been revoked.

And it was Severus' fault.

Then, Potter—the damned boy he'd been avoiding for weeks and weeks, who had been teetering on the edge of interjecting words of his own for the past few moments but had been mercifully silent until now—spoke up in the most innocently insolent way the daft boy could possibly manage:

"Why?"

Severus did not feel at all guilty about the mutinous glare he shot Potter, standing behind Draco and looking curiously at him. No, not at all guilty, and actually found it satisfying to see the boy blush suddenly and looked down, abashed by his own blunt, uncouth (and most likely unintentional) impertinence.

"It . . . the Headmistress thought it best, given the media speculation surrounding Ms. Lovegood's condition," he managed to growl.

Choosing diplomatically to ignore the exchange between Harry and Severus, Draco tilted his head, frowning. "Media speculation?"

Taking a slow, deep breath, Severus closed his eyes briefly and attempted to reign in his emotions. "I see you haven't been paying attention to the _Prophet_ , lately."

Both boys shook their heads.

Ah well. Perhaps it was for the best. "Hogwarts has—inevitably, I suppose—been attracting quite a bit of attention. According to Professor McGonagall, there is a leak inside the school. Since it cannot be identified and apprehended, she thinks it best to draw as little attention to Lovegood as possible."

He could see the boys each taking in this information, trying to process and grapple with it, and he sternly told himself not to grimace. He did not feel inclined to divulge the full reason he himself was banned from the infirmary; it was bad enough that some cheap media-whore had drummed up the idea in an article that didn't even exist (anymore).

Again, it was Potter who spoke up.

"What's wrong with her?" he piped up curiously, the color having died from his cheeks, his voice a little more self-assure now. Even though he was no longer being a twit (it really was an honest question) Severus still grate his teeth at the sound of the boy's voice. His desire to be rid of Potter's presence was so strong that he was tempted to just turn heel and leave.

"Dr. Melrough and I cannot reach a conclusion," he admitted tightly.

Potter said nothing more, just continued to regard him steadily from where he stood behind Draco. In his periphery, Severus noted that he and Draco were still inconspicuously clutching each other's hands, having not let go when Draco hauled Potter to his feet.

Draco too said nothing for a moment, assessing him as Potter was. Then, seeming to reach an internal conclusion, he nodded, and gestured at the ground.

"Since you are here . . . would you like to help, Professor?"

He pursed his lips, giving Potter another grudging look. Then nodded.

 

//

 

The three of them worked, as the two boys had before, more or less in silence. Luna, as it happened, had prepared a large batch of Named moonstones prior to being put in the infirmary; and Draco, with Harry's help, had produced a batch just about as big. In all, there were about sixty-five moonstones to plant that night, so Severus helped the boys with the fifty or so that were left.

By the time they were finished, it was nearly one in the morning. And Severus, being none-too keen to talk to Potter (who had adopted a pained expression, as of someone wanting to make a confession but lacking the courage), made motions to leave, keeping Draco between him and the other young man.

And since Draco hovered constantly by Potter's side, brushing against him every so often, it wasn't a hard thing to do. Severus was mildly surprised, actually: he'd never seen Draco so protective of another person his age, nor so chummy—although, according to that rather incriminating picture, "chummy" wasn't exactly the right word. . . .

"Draco. A word."

The blonde, who had been fixing Potter's robes (as if the blasted boy couldn't fasten the clasps himself), stayed his hands and looked to Severus, who was lingering near the exit. The young man approached tentatively.

"Sir?"

Severus gathered his cloak and wrapped it more firmly around himself, the before unnoticed chill finally seeping into his body. Over Draco's fair head, he leveled his gaze briefly at Potter, who was watching them curiously.

In a lowered voice, Severus commented, "I am guessing that this is not an exercise in social climbing." He jerked his chin at Potter.

Draco frowned, his demeanor a bit defensive. "No," he mumbled.

"I am not trying to chide you," Severus clarified, raising a brow. "But I would caution you against any . . . brash behavior."

"What?"

Severus sighed. "Let it simply be said that there is much speculation about you and Mr. Potter. _The Daily Prophet_ especially seems to be insistent on the notion that the two of you are more than just _compeers_. No doubt _Witch Weekly_ will be hot on their heels."

Draco blushed, but raised his chin defiantly. "And? If we are?"

Severus shrugged, turning heel. "Then I would be more careful about standing too closely in shadowed hallways."

 

//

 

That night, for the first time in weeks, Severus dreamed.

Not a nightmare by definition. A macabre swirl of colors and images and echoes of sounds, all blending together and dividing into impossible shapes. Tributaries upon tributaries branched off from one another, stretching upwards like skeletal arms from the deafening black well that featured foremost, like a black hole, both producing everything and sucking it back in.

He was not sure how long the dream lasted. Not long enough for him to make any sense of it. It ended rather abruptly, in a swell of green and gold and black. Tinkling bell around a long corner. The sound of his name.

_Severus . . . Severus! . . ._

Hallowed quiet.

. . .

_"SE—!"_

But when he awoke, jolting straight up from the couch by the hearth, where he had fallen asleep, there was no one there. Even when he went to investigate the door, he found no trace of anyone outside his chambers.

All he could rightly discern was that the scream he had heard in the dream was still resounding in his ears—and that something was very seriously, intrinsically _wrong_.

He was not a superstitious man, particularly at 4 in the morning. But it took little more than a ringing sense of dread to make him pull on his robes, his boots, and stalk out of his chambers.

He wasn't even in sight of the infirmary when he broke out into a run.


	9. A Dagger of the Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: A couple of notes. I'm afraid I've been a bit inconsistent with the original Harry Potter material, at least concerning medics and St. Mungo's. In the series, medics are not called doctors but "Mediwizards" or "Healers"; but I'm keeping Melrough's doctoral status, because to me, it simply means he is an expert in his field. Also, the robes of the St. Mungo's personnel are supposed to be lime green; honestly, if I were a patient, that color would drive me bonkers; my choice of dark blue is a bit easier on the eyes (lesser healers and nurses will wear light blue). Also, there is actually no "Mental Matters" ward in St. Mungo's, much less any one floor or ward for psychological trauma. The closest thing they have is the ward for permenant residents, the "Janus Thickey" ward. Since Mungo's is the only hospital ever mentioned in the series, it seems rather odd that they wouldn't also be able to treat psychological problems in witches and wizards as well as magic-related illnesses and injuries.
> 
> PS. I have Severus sizzling somewhere in here ;D

He was _not_ horrified. He honestly wasn't.

Reason number one being that he was Severus fucking Snape, ex-Deatheater, ex-spy, Potions Master, Head of Slytherin, and he simply didn't _do_ horrified. Reason number two being that the situation hardly warranted any such feeling of horror. Nevertheless, none of this stopped him from staring disbelievingly at the sight before him.

Medi-witches and –wizards all clad in dark blue robes filed hurriedly out of the private ward, brushing past Severus without a word, as if he were a statue fixed to the spot, gaping, stunned. He himself barely acknowledged their presence; they didn't even have faces to him. All other details of his surroundings were lost on him, so transfixed he was on the one thing that wasn't there.

Five feet from him was the bed. The sheets were wrinkled, a pillow torn open, feathers littering the bedding and the floor—the white, immaculate floor, which was aspersed with something that looked and _smelled_ and _was_ , unmistakably, blood.

And, like the faces of the medi-wizards, all of that filtered through his wide black eyes and fell into meaninglessness, completely eclipsed by the one detail that actually mattered:—

Luna Lovegood was gone.

"Mr. Snape!"

He didn't recognize the sound of his own name, the syllables rolling around meaninglessly in his shell-shocked brain as he tried to make sense of the image before him. bed. Torn. Feather. Blood. Empty. Luna. Gone.

"Sir." Again someone addressing him, but a different voice now, and spoken closer this time, right next to him actually, and someone had put their hand on his shoulder, was attempting to steer him out of the room.

Without warning and without thinking, Severus whirled, hands outreached like claws, roughly grabbing hold of the front of someone's robes. Brutally, he shoved them backwards into the pristine white wall, pressing in close and snarling—

" _Where_?! Where—is—she?" He slammed the person against the wall again, causing the brunette head to knock back, limp like a doll's.

Whilst he was busy terrorizing the person in his grip, someone else had approached and was now tugging adamantly on his shoulder and upper arm, trying to pry him off. "Snape!"

Thickly, through his spurt of fury and anxiety, he recognized the voice of Dr. Melrough, and his arms involuntarily loosened their harpie-like hold on the young man before him.

"Mr. Snape," Melrough said calmly, "Please put the intern down."

He blinked. Into focus swam the pale, pock-scarred face of a petrified 20-year old who looked as though he might lose bladder control any second.

Slowly, as if reluctant to let go of his prey, Severus lowered the boy to the ground, having lifted him a few inches off the floor in his panic. Like a frightened rabbit, the intern stood stock still where Severus let him down, not even twitching as Severus removed his hands and took a step back.

In the periphery, Dr. Melrough was looking between the men, something like a wry smile twisting his mouth. He turned to the young intern. "You can go, Mr. Matthews."

The young man gave one last cautious look at Severus—and then all but bolted from the room, speeding after the other medi-wizards exiting the infirmary.

Severus looked after him somewhat dazedly, nostrils still flared and hands curled in anger. He nearly jumped when the voice of Melrough floated over to him:

"Are you all r—"

"Where is she?" he asked rounding on Melrough and fixing him with a fierce black stare. "Where is Lovegood? What happened?"

Melrough met his gaze somewhat uncomfortably. "She has been moved to the Mental Matters ward; two medi-wizards left with her ten minutes ago."

"Wh—"

"She had another attack. Last night."

"But—"

"I do not know what triggered it. But this morning, Miss Maggie and I found her in the lav, playing with broken bits of mirror. She had tried to jump through it, is what she said. There were also two other broken mirrors in the main infirm. It took a while, but eventually I managed to calm her down. I had Madame Pomfrey alert St. Mungo's. I am sorry, Severus; there was no choice."

"You cannot let her stay there!" Severus growled. "She—"

"Right now, she is a serious danger to herself," Melrough interjected, eyes and voice hardening clinically. "It is obvious that you and I alone cannot keep her from harm; this is what is best—"

"What is _best_ —?!"

"— _at the moment_. No—stop, will you just listen? I have _figured_ it out."

Severus, who'd been opening his mouth to interrupt angrily, was quieted instantly by that last phrase. His dark eyes widened, but his voice was narrow with suspicion. "Have you?"

Melrough nodded. "Yes. And you cannot help me find a treatment or cure if you continue to let your emotions get the best of you."

And Dr. Bryan Melrough, for all his professionalism and hard exterior, _almost_ flinched at the perfectly _lethal_ glower the Potions Master leveled him with.

_"Quite."_

The word was like the drop of an icicle.

Melrough surveyed him, pleasant face drawn tight. Pursing his lips, he nodded, and motioned. "Now then. For you to fully understand this, I need to gather my sources and materials. May I meet you in half an hour? Your private lab?"

Severus could feel the jagged scratch of tension, like a slow knife in his lungs, and he willed himself to focus. Being an angry prat wasn't going to solve anything. Wasn't going to help her. . . .

"Yes, fine. Half an hour."

 

//

 

It occurred to him in retrospect, as he let the heavily-laden down doctor into his private study/laboratory that Melrough had suggested that specific amount of time to allow him to cool down sufficiently. Sitting there in the bleak stillness of his rooms, all of his emotional training self-man-handling came back to him in spades, and he rigorously berated and schooled himself on his lack of professionalism. Where did he get off acting like a bloody teenager, anyway? He'd always had a temper, and tantrums weren't all that uncommon, but Merlin's balls, he'd been atrocious lately. It was almost embarrassing.

And it was with that in mind that he kept his expression and movements cool and fluid; he did not quite trust himself to speak, though, so he said little as he helped the doctor with his papers and books.

Once everything had been laid out of Severus' hastily cleared work-table, Melrough placed his hands on either side of the tabletop and let out a mild sigh.

"You are a Potions Master," he addressed Severus. "One of the best, so far as your credentials and achievements can tell me. I assume that in your course of study you have covered, at least briefly, alchemy and metaphysics?"

Severus alit on a stool across from him, crossed his legs, and folded his arms on the table. "Yes, I did," he replied smoothly, not bothering to mention that "brief" hardly described his lengthy study of the former art.

Melrough nodded. "Right. So you are familiar with how the body, spirit, brain, and magic work in tandem in a witch or wizard?"

"Familiar, yes."

"Did you study death at all?"

The air around them, chill and lifeless as it already was, seemed to grow instantly colder. ". . . I am not sure I see where you are going with—"

"What about the effects of severe physical and mental trauma?"

The pause that ensued before he spoke next stretched out even longer than the first.

"What is this? What is going on?"

Melrough frowned, running a hand fretfully through his blonde shock of hair. "I'll take that as a 'no' then. Okay." A contemplative sigh. "I think I can—this is a bit difficult to explain, and maybe a bit more difficult to fathom—but it's the only possibility—"

" _Melrough."_

"Right, sorry." Another pause. Deep breath. "Do you remember the photos I showed you? Post Malfoy Manor?"

The image rose sharp and vibrant in his mind. "Yes." Of course. Every detail. "She looked like. . . ."

"Like death," Melrough finished. "Like a corpse. Out of curiosity, I asked Madame Pomfrey to produce again for me Ms. Lovegood's medical record, so I could examine it more closely—her injury assessment in particular." The doctor's kind eyes were flashing with a kind of excitement, while at the same time his mouth twisted in worry. "We try not to look a gift horse in the mouth wherein survival is concerned, but I had to wonder. . . ."

Melrough's hand slipped under a sheath of papers, from under which he drew a familiar manila folder. He opened his carefully, splaying his hands out over pages of measurements, notes, and medical logs. "Even Madame Pomfrey didn't really notice it at the time; she took in all the details, but didn't form a conclusion from them. Based on her notes, there is absolutely no way Miss Lovegood should have lived through the beating that her body took. "

Severus frowned, confusion settling in comfortably between strictly-enforced calmness and bubbling unease. "But, she did; and, physically, she is recovered. I was under the impression that her main problem now was psychological."

"That's just it. She _didn't_ survive."

Severus forgot to breathe.

"At some point during her stay at Malfoy Manor, Luna Lovegood died."

 

//

 

Severus had been ready to declare the good doctor bonkers right then and there, at least for a few minutes. Overworked, overstressed, there was absolutely no way he could possibly be suggesting—but, over the course of the next half hour, as Severus listened to Melrough explain all of his doubts ebbed away.

And slowly but surely, pieces of the maddening puzzle began to click together.

What Melrough was proposing, once fully explained, actually made quite a bit of sense. As a mediwizard specializing in trauma (particularly mental trauma), Melrough had done some extensive studies as a pre-Med student on death as a result of various kinds of mental, physical, and magical trauma. In a dissertation he wrote, he observed that most traumatic deaths were caused by physical or magical forces; and, in the event of these types of deaths, there is a very specific order by which the elements of a being—mind, body, and essence—perish or vanish. The average trauma-related death is as follows: the body first gives out, almost immediately followed by the death of the mind, after which the essence, or soul, will exit the body. As with most things in nature, this order is in place for a reason; and there are dire results of this order being interrupted or changed.

"The mind is the glue that holds body and soul together," Melrough explained, "It's the channel through which everything is translated. Thus, the mind is nearly always the second element to go. Once the channel snaps, the soul is free to make its exodus."

 _Nearly_ , being the keyword. There were, Melrough informed him, cases wherein the mind or soul goes before the body; the result of this is the altogether horrifying "vegetable state", wherein the body is essentially a shell half-full.

"When most people think of death, they think in physical terms—in bodily death. But that isn't the case. Interestingly, death as defined by the medical community is the absence of both mind and soul, which are more intrinsically linked than mind and body or soul and body. So, technically, those people in so-called 'vegetative states' are dead, as well as anyone who has received the Dementor's Kiss. Their minds and souls died first. Mental death, or _Sententia Mortis_ , is similar, but worse: the mind dies, but body and soul are left still attached, and soul is basically imprisoned in the body. In such cases, the order of nature is interrupted."

"So, essentially, you are saying that the sheer existence of such people is an abomination?" Severus supplied.

"Ish. The real abomination is when nature attempts to correct this abnormality, and butchers it badly—which is what I think happened with Ms. Lovegood. My theory is that she suffered from temporary mental death."

Severus raised a single black brow. "'Temporary'?" he echoed skeptically.

Melrough nodded. Yes. And how was that possible? In some witches and wizards, the magic-infused soul is extremely potent; rarely when such individuals experience mental death, the soul will establish a new link with the body, and generate a new mind from the old. Sometimes, the soul will actually initiate mental death with the pre-design of mental rebirth— a curious defense mechanism that has just as much potential to damage as to save. It was ingenious, Melrough insisted, but seldom successful.

"There are only seventeen cases in recorded of mental death followed by a subsequent 'rebirth', as it were. In all seventeen cases, the subjects eventually went insane and died. None of the cases are detailed so well as the sister of the Greek Vasilios Takis. His journals depict his sister as behaving normally for the most part during the day—but, she would have recurring night-terrors. It got to a point where he thought she was possessed."

"Like Lovegood."

"Yes. Just like Luna. The only conclusion he could draw was that, somehow, her 'dead' mind was effecting her new one. Which leads me to another conclusion: the attacks are not night-specific, but sleep-specific; it's only during sleep that the new mind would be unguarded enough to allow the old access or chance to fetter around."

Severus nodded. That explained quite a bit, such as why the attacks only started recently. He recalled Luna's bleary, tired, but smiling face. _Because I don't dream. I remember_. She'd said she hadn't been sleeping—to ward off these night attacks?

"But it makes me wonder," Melrough was musing, "what about Potter? Potter died as well, and the circumstances surrounding his death would indicate that it was either mental or spiritual. But, he's not suffering the same symptoms in as far as anyone knows."

Ah. Finally, his arena of expertise. Severus shook his head. "No, he is not—but Potter did not die. I don't suppose you are familiar with Horcrux theory?"

A sick look crossed Melrough's face. "No, thank you."

Severus rolled his eyes. "Relax. It is not as _ghastly_ as you might think. I had been doing an extended amount of research for the Dark Lord before Potter 'took him to school' so to speak. It's quite fascinating."

"So I've been told."

It wasn't an accusatory tone that the doctor took, but Severus definitely detected a certain amount unease. He looked at the younger man curiously.

Melrough had the good grace to look sheepish. "You, ah . . . you're still kind of a hot topic. I was in the faculty room the other day and was . . . well, I wouldn't go so far as to say _warned_ against you, but . . . I mean, nobody doubts that you've proven your worth—"

Oh. Severus rolled his eyes. "You have been told about my less than noble past and my affinity for dark magic."

Melrough nodded.

Severus refrained from grimacing. _Peachy_. Spend the last twenty years of your life protecting a brat and, incidentally, the rest of the wizarding world from a psychotic and powerful madman, and peope still think you're up to no good. "Whatever gossip your ears have been subjected to is of no importance now. I am not suggesting we fool around in Horcrux magic; I simply thought it might shed some light into our situation." He paused, tracing a long forefinger around a burn-mark on the wooden table as he thought.

"Potter was unknowingly made into a Horcrux," he mused, "and Horcruxes are magically equipped to defend themselves, whether they embody inanimate objects or living things. It's one of the reasons they are so difficult to destroy; they behave like a parasite, but will protect their host if attacked. When the Dark Lord attacked Mr. Potter, the Horcrux projected itself in defense, so what the Killing Curse actually destroyed was the Horcrux, not Mr. Potter. Actually. . . ." he trailed off suddenly, expression gone pensive.

Noticing immediately the shift, Melrough perked up. "What?"

Fingers now prancing slowly and somewhat idly across the papers strewn over the work-table, Severus' mouth thinned as he methodically sifted through his thoughts. "You mentioned, did you not, that the Greek—Takis?— deduced that his sister's old mind was effecting her new one."

Melrough nodded. "Yes."

"That would imply that the old mind remains attached to . . . well, the rest of the elements. That, instead of dissipating, it lingers, latched onto the new mind like a barnacle or said-parasite. Somewhat like a Horcrux."

"And?"

"And, parasites can usually be removed."

Melrough considered him for a long, serious moment. "That's dangerous," he said finally, quietly. "And I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"But I do."

Fluidly, Severus stood and turned to the wall on his right, against which leaned a large, fairly old mahogany cabinet. Stepping up to it, he waved a hand over a drawer on the left side, a the knob glowing faintly red as the wards around it fell beneath his hand. Carefully, he pulled it open, and extracted a large stack of blank papers, which he brought over and laid upon the work-table before Melrough. The doctor looked down at the empty papers, confused.

"What's this?" he asked.

Allowing himself a small smirk, he replied, "A trick I learned from a certain werewolf." He waved a slender hand over the sheaf of papers, and muttered, " _Nostalgia."_

Instantly, ink seeped into the papers, curving into a delicate and neat scroll that was unmistakably his own.

"The Dark Lord told almost none of his followers about his use of Horcruxes. Once the artifacts began to be destroyed, however, he had to entrust a few people with the information—one of those few being myself. He commissioned me to do extensive research on them; in that research, I eventually (perhaps inevitably) came to the baffling conclusion that Mr. Potter was also a Horcrux—which made perfect sense, based on the Prophecy and what Albus had told me about the necessity of the boy's demise. And, as much as I thoroughly despise the boy, I couldn't help but wonder if there was another means of removing the presence of the Horcrux from Potter's being. The thought led me up a very interesting avenue of research. This," he plated a hand on the papers for emphasis, "is my Transference Theory."

 

//

 

For the next half of an hour, all that was heard was the shifting of old parchment, the excited murmurs coming from the doctor as he read through Severus' research, and the occasional comment from Severus as he explained a finer detail. As he read, the young doctor's comportment transformed from slightly despairing and overwhelmed to excited and hopeful. After completely going over the main portion of the theory several times, he looked up at his companion with shining eyes.

"Do you think—?"

"It seems like our best bet. We cannot simply obliviate Miss Lovegood. A pensieve, though based on the same principle, will not be adequate either, as it will not eradicate the tumor but only dull the memories. But this technique transfers the parasite to an object, like Horcrux magic. Unfortunately, the theory is yet untested, and the magic is fairly complex . . . but I cannot see an alternative."

Melrough shook his head once vigorously. "No. And this seems just brilliant enough to work—but . . ." he tore his eyes away from the papers and looked at Severus, expression having darkened again.

"The magics and mechanics of Death Science aren't exactly concrete," he said. "It's a soft science, like psychology—some physicians are a bit skeptical about it. And mental rebirth is more or less unheard of, save for the seventeen cases I mentioned." Setting the papers back down, the young doctor leaned back. "I attempted to bring up Mental Rebirth at a conference about six months ago—I've never got such a negative reception in my life. The healers my age looked at me as though I ought to join the inmates, and the veterans gave me indulgent smiles and condescending comments about 'replacing rationality with rashness'. It was embarrassing."

"So your diagnosis will not be accepted?"

"Not necessarily. I know a few other specialists who would be willing to back me up—especially after they have a chance to review Luna and her files. The main obstacle is that there have been so few cases, no one has ever really researched how to treat or cure it. Your method . . .well, new treatments have to undergo a lot of inquiry and testing—it's quite a process. It could be a year before you are allowed to attempt such magics on Ms. Lovegood."

Severus narrowed his eyes, slightly irked. His one good idea—hell, his one brilliant idea—and it looked as though it was going to be shot down. "Sure they can be convinced—I refuse to allow her to rot in there for a full bloody year."

"The EUMA—that's European Union of Magical Ailments, the ones you'll have to convince—have only exempted new treatment from full processing three times in the last four decades. Not promising, but it could happen."

"I see," Severus muttered briskly, more than slightly irritated now. He felt like he was wandering endlessly through a maze, coming upon dead end after dead end; the feeling of lost helplessness weighed down on him, made him sizzle with defiance. "What about preventative measures? Are there any that can be taken to prevent more severe night-terrors? There were a few nights she spent in the hospital wing where her nocturnal afflictions were only mild—'tossing and turning' as Pomfrey described."

"To what end, though?"

"To buy time before another major attack. Perhaps enough time to convince someone at St. Mungo's or a handful of specialists of the veracity of our claim."

Melrough shook his head; the poor doctor looked rather haggard, and it was evident that he was also experiencing some amount of frustration. Despair, however, was the predominating emotion. "There are none that we know of—no technique or spell—" Melrough halted suddenly, expression clouding; he brought his attention from the manuscripts before him and tilted his head, giving Severus an odd look.

"Actually, the only differentiating factor was _your_ presence."

Severus was taken aback. "What? I—" oh, hell. "Nevermind. If that is what it takes" his presence, familiar and unthreatening (read: comforting, protective) "then find some way to procure for me daily visits—"

"She's top security and considered dangerous; she's only allowed two hour-long visits per week, and under strict supervision—"

"Damn it, stop telling me what we _cannot_ do and tell me what we _can_!" Severus snapped. His half-shout echoed throughout the dungeon lab's thick stone walls.

Melrough, ever unaffected, was not disturbed by Severus' obvious and appointed ire; if anything, he became more despondent. "I don't know what to tell you."

"Something useful would be welcomed," Severus muttered.

Melrough frowned. "Fine. Then _ask_ me about something you consider 'useful'. What would you like me to tell you first?"

If there was a smidgen of irritation in Melrough's voice now, Severus barely heard it. All his attention seemed suddenly focused inward, and one could practically hear the wheels in his brain churning frantically; his black eyes had taken on a hard, glassy look, and his mouth was slowly twisting into something resembling a serpentine smile.

"You could start by telling me how impregnable St. Mungo's is."

Melrough's lower jaw just about hit the floor. "You can't be serious."

Severus looked at him, raising a crisp eyebrow. "As many would doubtless inform you, I am little else."

"But that is comple—"

"How far are you willing to go for your patient, doctor?" Severus asked coolly, drawing himself up to full towering height. "What exactly are your obligations to her? I am not her doctor, but she is one of the few decent people I've been privileged to call a friend, and I will do damn well _everything_ in my power to aid her."

"But it'sm. . . _illegal_ ," Melrough protested, if somewhat weakly.

"Are you _that_ concerned about the legalities? If we follow protocol, she could very well be locked away for months, perhaps years. If it worries you that much, you can tell the authorities when it's all over that I forced you. They would have no problem believing you if you said as much. There are plenty who still consider me a threat."

"And you'd trade fates with her that easily?"

"Yes."

Melrough studied him ruefully, somewhat cautiously, as though Severus were some great stalking beast who may or may not pose an immediate threat. His mouth thinned into a taut line, and his blonde brows wrinkled ever so slightly.

After a long, intense pause (filled with nothing but the immense gravity of Severus' best inky glare), Melrough's shoulders slumped in defeat.

"All right; fine. But this is for _her_ , not because you're all but threatening me," he clarified.

"Good. Then find out everything you can about her security situation and contact me when you have enough information."

With that, Dr. Melrough stood, nodding curtly. "I'll floo the head of Mental Matters and make an inquiry," he said, beginning to gather his materials. "Oh," he dipped his hand into his robe-pocket and pulled out a small white object on a chain, offering it palm-up to Severus.

Carefully, Severus plucked the pearl and its chain from Melrough's outstretched hand, and he cradled it in his own. A nearly-undetectable aura emanated from it, and it seemed almost to be alive in his hand.

"She asked me to give this to you, before they took her away," Melrough supplied by way of explanation.

Severus nodded, curling his hand over the stone. Deftly, he dropped it into the pocket of his own robes, where it lay heavily, reassuringly. "Thank you," he said.

As he watched the young doctor get up and swiftly exit his lab, Severus mused that it was rather fortunate that Melrough had agreed so easily. He had, actually, been prepared to exert real force— which would have been unfortunate, as he was beginning to be mildly fond of the doctor.

 

//

 

Miles away in London, in a private room of St. Mungo's Mental Matters ward, Luna Lovegood hummed softly to herself.

Medic intern Gary Matthews watched in silence as the medi-wizard he was shadowing waved his wand over the strange, slight young girl, performing a series of general diagnostic tests. The medi-wizard, an older man with fine white hair, dictated aloud notes which Matthews was busily recording in the medical file of "L. Lovegood."

Finishing up a notation, Matthews stole a glance at the patient again. Her file said she was sixteen, but she was so small it was easy to believe her younger. Large, electric-blue eyes gaped out curiously from her delicate face, framed by sunny-pale wisps of tangled hair. If it weren't for the large purple-black circles under her eyes and the bandages on her arms, hands, forehead, and legs, she would have looked like a nymph. She certainly had an otherworldliness to her, a strange fey-like aura only enhanced by the constantly dreamy-surprised look she wore.

For the moment, all of her attention was focused on the doctor, who was examining the Binding Bracelet on her wrist. Absently, Matthews scratched the back of his head, fingers grazing over a small bump. He grimaced and gingerly prodded the area. Damn. That bastard had knocked him pretty good. At the thought of the tall, dark-hair, enraged man that had almost pummeled him that morning, Matthews suppressed a shiver. He wasn't an expert (yet) but by all accounts, it seemed far more plausible to put that man inside this ward, rather than the pleasant, quiet girl sitting on the bed.

As he stared, L. Lovegood glanced away from the doctor, leveling her disturbing eyes at him. she smiled, displaying dimples and the glimmer of white teeth.

He smiled back, stomach twisting slightly. It didn't quite sit with him, young girl like that in this ward with this level of security, arms and ankles bound by magical restraints, a Binding Bracelet on her wrist. He had been told about her fits, though he hadn't gotten there in time to see it for himself. The injuries she had sustained were plain physical evidence of said-attacks—but she was so placid, so mild.

L. Lovegood, who had continued to stare at him, suddenly closed her mouth, pressed her lips together and began humming, soft and sweet. A not-quite tune, just a string of notes.

The medi-wizard, noticing the shift in his patient's attention, turned to look back at Matthews, who stood stock-still, quill still posed to paper. Then the older man looked back at his patient.

"We're done for the day," he said finally. He stepped away from the bed and walked towards the door of the room. "Say good bye to Miss Lovegood."

Matthews tucked her file under one arm, and inclined his head. "Goodbye, Miss Lovegood."

She said nothing, only waved cheerily at him as he turned and headed out the door.

The sound of her humming seemed to follow him all the way down the hall.

 

//

 

"Running the risk of making you hate me, let me just say . . . you aren't going to like this."

A few hours later, they were in conference again; this time, instead of retreating to Severus' private lab, they opted for the living area of his quarters. There was really no point to be in the lab anyway, and Severus was beginning to feel the edges of weariness slinking through him. Sitting in an armchair by the hearth was definitely a more welcome idea than sitting in the cold on a hard wooden stool.

Melrough was sitting across from him also in an armchair; unlike Severus, who was reclining easily, Melrough was hunched over, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in worry. His eyes were currently searching Severus' face for signs of irritation. And though the words were forbidding indeed, Severus simply continued to watch the younger man calmly, waiting for him to continue.

Seeing that there was no scowl looming over his companion's features (yet), Melrough took a deep breath and continued. "I contacted Dr. Standish, and he informed me that Luna is doing well. She's is, and I quote 'stable, cheerful, and musical'—but she has also been issued new arm and leg restraints, and is confined to her room until further notice. She's also been giving a Binding Bracelet, which temporarily dampens her ability to use magic. This is useful for cases like hers when her magic is slightly haywire; but, a detrimental effect of the bracelet is that reigning in the magic creates a certain amount of pressure on the patient."

"What about security?" Severus asked carefully.

Melrough grinned in a sardonic, sort of self-depreciating kind of way. "Ah. That's the fun part. She's top security, so there will be a guard in the room with her at all times, at least for the first four days of her stay—yes, I know it's silly, and a waste of personnel resources. But that's been the policy for ages. Aside from having someone in the room with her around the clock, there are also medi-wizards, orderlies, and security personnel patrolling her ward block constantly."

Severus noted with slight amusement that the doctor had ended on a note that reeked somewhat of triumph. He steepled his fingers and looked at the man mildly (if "mild" were even a possible expression for him). "Do not sound so pleased. I hope you do not think that such small obstacles will dissuade me."

Contrary to what Severus expected, Melrough's expression did not fall in disappointment or incredulity. Actually, his little grin grew, though still resembled a grimace. "No. I get the feeling you'd blast down the very walls of the hospital to get to her."

"Impractical, but it is something to consider."

"I'm slightly jealous you know," Melrough returned seriously. "Of your determination."

Severus shrugged. "I have nothing to lose."

"I do. They could take away my license."

"I can place you under the _Imperius,_ if you like."

Melrough looked at him darkly; Severus merely raised and lowered one shoulder. It was only an offer.

Choosing not to reply, Melrough continued. "So. You can choose to wait a week until her security status is lowered—"

"Not an option."

"—or, you can act sooner and have a greater risk of detection and subsequent failure."

"We cannot wait that long, Melrough. There is no telling what could happen to her in four days in such conditions."

"I know, I know. But there is only one conceivable way we might be able to gain admittance to the room and be alone with her. Her in-room guard or nurse changes every six hours. The night watch, starting at nine, will be overseen by doctors. I can fill in for the first watch and let you in. But there's another problem in that: she'll be administered sedatives to help her sleep around seven, which means she'll almost definitely be asleep by eight. There's the possibility that she could have an attack before shift change, in which case she'll have an entire team flitting around her."

Severus took this information in, eyes focused on the tips of his fingers where they met each other. He made a sound low in his throat, almost a hum, something he occasionally did involuntarily when he was contemplating something particularly difficult.

When Severus said nothing, Melrough made the meek addendum, "And all this assuming you can correctly perform the magics of your Transference Theory."

At that, Severus' gaze flicked to him sharply, eyes glinting like jets. "I can."

"What object are you going to use?"

Wordlessly, Severus slipped his hand into his robe and produced the pearl.

Melrough nodded. "I figured. Although I'm not sure I understand the significance."

Tucking the precious object back into his robe, Severus responded, "It is an interesting story. You will have to ask her about it."

"I think I will."

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, neither of them having anything much to say. Finally, Melrough gave a little cough, straightened up his navy robes, and said, "I am returning to London today, since there is little need for me to remain here now that my patient is gone. This evening, I will request to participate in the night-watch. It will give me an opportunity to study Luna's condition and to better assess the security situation. I can only get you into the room with her; getting into the hospital undetected is up to you."

Severus nodded. "I know." He stood from where he was sitting at the worktable and followed Melrough, who was heading for the door. "Contact me as soon as you have sufficient information."

"Of course." Once they reached the door, Melrough halted, and turned to look Severus in the eye. "These magics . . . are you sure of them? You did say it was untested. . . ."

"The technique is essentially a form of Occlumency, which I am particularly skilled at."

"But is there a chance you could hurt her?"

Pause.

"I refuse to let that happen."

Melrough looked down, and fiddled absently with the cuff of his robe. "You could get into serious trouble for this," he informed quietly. "Even if you succeed, you could still be charged with a severe offense. Not just for breaking in, but for performing unsanctioned magic on a patient. What's worse is that, from a legal and medical standpoint, the magic you're proposing to use is technically Dark."

As his words filtered through Severus' mind, he suddenly felt very, very tired; the last couple of days were catching up on him, exhaustion creeping into his veins. He appreciated Melrough's help and maybe even his company, but at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be left to solitude.

Wordless, he pushed open the door, not gesturing but obviously meaning for Melrough to leave. No doubt aware of the sudden slump of Severus' usually rigid shoulders and the weariness welling in the depths of his eyes, Melrough graciously stepped through the doorway; however, when he was standing on the other side of the threshold, he turned around to Severus once again.

"You really care for her, don't you?"

If he had the energy, he might have laughed, low and bitter.

Instead, he curled his lips in a not-smile, and replied as he closed the door:—

"Whatever gave you that idea?"


	10. Pearl II

After Melrough left, Severus had turned back to his chambers with every intention of going to sleep. Well, almost every intention. There was a certain part of him that irrationally deemed sleeping whilst Luna was in such peril as unchaste. He stood in front of his fireplace for a moment, battling this point with himself; at present, he could feasibly do nothing to help Luna directly, and depriving himself of much-needed rest definitely wasn't doing either of them any good.

Despite this sound logic, he did not manage to make it to his bed. Instead, he dropped down in an armchair in front of the empty grate; after writing a quick note to Draco to explain what had happened and sending it via house-elf, he sank back into the chair and stared aimlessly into the ashes of the dead grate.

At some point, he did manage to doze off—not into any sort of sleep, though. Just the absence of wakefulness. It was an irritating in-between state, and every so often he felt himself twitch in annoyance. The only saving grace was that he did not dream: and this in and of itself would have been blissful if it weren't for the damning, buzzing, black and unrestful silence that pervaded.

Around one, when he could bare this state of consciousness no more, he roused himself once again. After washing up and having what could hardly be called a meal (coffee, black, an apple and half a piece of toast), he managed to busy himself for most of the afternoon filling Poppy's weekly order, as well as prepping a few emergency salves for Professor Sprout. Small comfort though it was, attending to the potions did a little to take his mind off of things, forcing him to place his full and immediate attention with a task he could actually and effectively execute. Even still, every little sound made him look up, half-expecting to see Melrough standing in his doorway.

At four, with still no sign of Melrough and most of the potions orders filled, Severus' thoughts once again turned to Luna and the task he was presented with. Breaking and entering was a certain specialty of his; with both Voldemort and Dumbledore, he'd been involved extensively in many assignments that required unlawfully getting in and out of top-security buildings, residences, and headquarters. His knowledge of cloaking and stealth charms was impressive, and he knew just about every underhanded trick there was. Nevertheless, he pulled out his books and reviewed strategies, spells and tactics that might in any way aid him getting into St. Mungo's; he sent a house-elf to the library and studied floor-plans of building, it's history, and famous escapes, of which there were few. This endeavor occupied him steadily; but far from easing his frustration, it was instead heightened.

By six o'clock, Severus was growing agitated. Where was Melrough? He stood once more in front of the hearth, looking at it expectantly. Melrough hadn't said how he'd contact him. would he floo? Should he be expecting an owl—?

Quite suddenly, there was a loud _crack_ directly beside him, causing Severus to whirl around and snatch his wand from his robes, jumping instinctively into dueling stance.

A young face looked concernedly at the wand tip that was maybe an inch from the bridge of a blonde brow. Melrough held up his arms.

"Ah, erm, sorry to startle you," he said, eyes crossed slightly.

Despite the fact that Melrough was obviously no threat, Severus' muscles remained tensed, and he did not lower his wand. "I thought you said those privileges were temporary."

"they are," Melrough assured, looking from Severus' wand tip to the man himself. "They wear off tomorrow."

Slowly and somewhat reluctantly, Severus finally lowered his wand. He tried not to shoot the young doctor a nasty look as he slipped it back into his robes. "I would advise you never to do that again," he growled. "Consider yourself fortunate to still have a face."

Melrough had the good grace to look slightly sheepish. "Right, sorry."

Severus pressed his lips together and folded his arms grimly. "So; I assume you have news and information for me."

Melrough nodded, face growing equally grim. "Yes. I do. I have been assigned as the doctor-on-duty for the first watch of tonight's night-shift. I will be accompanied by two orderlies, and there is a medical team on standby if I need them.

Severus took another step back, generously giving the doctor a little more room and a little less reason to be afraid for his facial features. "All of them in the room with you?" he asked.

"No. One orderly in the room, one outside. The GET – general emergency team—will be on the first floor. Are you at all familiar with the layout of St. Mungo's?"

Severus nodded. "Every cubic meter."

"Good. This will make explaining a lot easier."

For the most part, what Melrough had to say wasn't anything Severus was not already aware of or hadn't deduced for himself. St. Mungo's was protected all-around by a force-field of sorts, a highly-tuned magical shield that encompassed the entire building. It identifies entities by their magical signature; patients and doctors have their magical signature encoded into the shield. This meant that security was notified every time a doctor or patient entered or exited. An inpatient or anyone with an undocumented signature could not pass through the ward without triggering an alarm.

The only gaps in the ward where undocumented persons could pass through were the three main entrances on the first floor. Since the Mental Matters ward was on the fourth floor, east side, the east entrance was the most likely route.

There was, however, a problem there. Though the mainframe shield was inactive at the entry-points, there were smaller wards to get by, as well as a staff of at least 3 security members at each entrance.

"The security detail should not be that hard to get past," Melrough reasoned, "but the wards are a bit trickier. They don't distinguish magical signatures: it would make no difference if two or twenty people were passing through them. They do, however, detect concealed weapons and harmful magical artifacts. They also reveal if the person entering has any enchantments on them—that is, if they're wearing any glamours or veneers. If you've got a charm to change something as trivial as your eye-color, or if you've got dye in your hair, the wards will go off and you'll be found out."

"What about invisibility charms?"

"They're harder to detect, but apparently any concealment charm cast upon your person will create at least a ripple that will be noticed by security."

"So, cloaking charms are out," Severus supplied.

Melrough nodded. "If you want to gain admittance, you will have to identify yourself as a visitor."

"Could I be bringing you left-behind research materials? They know I was working with you on Lovegood's case, correct? It is a feasible excuse."

But, ever the bearer of bad news it seems, Melrough shook his head. "No. I mean, that would get you as far as the front desk, because they wouldn't let you deliver the materials yourself, especially if my shift with Luna has already started. Besides, you'd never get through the barrier ward on her door in time."

Severus narrowed his tired eyes. "What about the general wards? How strong are they? Can they be disabled?"

"Fairly strong. And yes, they can be disabled, but it might rob you of a significant amount of energy since they are so extensive—and quite honestly, you don't look like you have the energy to spare."

Severus held back the acidic remark that threatened to escape his tongue; he wasn't angry with Melrough, just the situation. It wouldn't do to piss off the man who was helping him. Illegally and at great risk to himself, at that. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "And if I do away with stealth entirely?" he asked.

"Security would be notified and all floors would be put on alert. They'd be able to track you down before you even got to Luna. They are still a lot of war-heroes and high-profile criminals residing at St. Mungo's: that's why the security is so tight."

Severus cursed quietly under his breath, casting a glance to the analog clock on his mantle: it read 6:30. He had two and a half hours to come up with something

But Melrough's words were cut off abruptly by a sharp rap on the door.

Ignoring the instantly terrified look on Melrough's face (obviously the man thought Severus didn't know how to ward his own chambers against eavesdropping), Severus angrily strode over to his chamber door and threw it open, intending to verbally massacre whoever dare disturb him—

"Delivery for Professor Snape," said the small elf standing before the door.

Before Severus could even open his mouth to utter a syllable, the elf, calmly and completely unaware of the ire he might be invoking, laid a small, paper-wrapped parcel at Severus' feet, and disapparated.

Severus stared at the spot where the house-elf had been. Then he looked down at the package where it sat unassumingly on the floor.

Stooping, he snatched it up. Closer inspection revealed a few lines of scraggly writing on a smooth portion of the parcel-paper. Very _familiar_ scraggly handwriting.

And, as Severus read those two, scant little sentences, he felt that he had never been more appreciative of the writer than at that moment.

_Draco told me what happened. I got the feeling you might be needing this._

_\- HP_

 

_//_

 

 

"This feels very strange," Melrough muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he walked up to the great grey-mason building with its eerie, blue-lit windows.

From under the cloak, Severus snarled, "Do not speak, and keep walking."

Pursing his mouth into a thin line, Melrough barely nodded and increased his stride, approaching the stairs leading up to the double doors of St. Mungo's east entrance at a brisk pace. Severus trailed behind, his own footsteps uncannily silent.

As he and the doctor entered the building, Severus once again thanked Potter for his unknowing stroke of pure genius. It was astoundingly convenient, really, a perfect solution. As Melrough had mentioned, the function of the wards at St. Mungo's was to detect and identify charmed persons and malign artifcats. But, since the Invisibility Cloak was a charmed _object_ without ill-purpose, it went unnoticed by the wards, allowing Severus to discreetly tail Melrough as he went through security.

While Melrough allowed himself to be magically screened, he genially traded weary-sounding pleasantries with the attendant (yes, wasn't the night shift gruling? What, sleep? For a doctor? Nice one). Severus tuned them out, keeping himself occupied by taking in his surroundings. As Melrough had said, there were three security wizards at this entrance; there was also an exhausted looking Auror who appeared to be making rounds, who traded respectful head-bows with Melrough before the latter was allowed to pass through the double doors leading to the first floor. Severus, nearly tripping over Melrough heels, swiftly followed.

It was about 8:30, and the hospital was beginning to wind down for the night. Patients were being ushered into their rooms and beds, while nurses and healers made rounds, checking up on everything before their shift ended. It was early enough that most of the night shift had not yet arrived, but a substantial portion of the day-shift had been let go for the day. Melrough walked purposefully across the floor, nodding at doctors and nurses as he passed and making his way towards the elevators. Once he and Severus were inside with the door closed, Melrough, without turning, said:—

"Now, once we're at the door of her ward, you'll need to stay very close. The magical-signature reading spells on the higher-security are a little more sensitive. When I pass through the door, my signature will be read and recorded; we will need to pass through the doorway at essentially the same time, less you be detected."

Though Melrough couldn't see him, Severus nodded.

The enchanted voice of the lift-operator intoned: "Fourth Floor, Mental Matters Ward".

"Here we are," Melrough supplied needlessly, stepping out.

The fourth floor of St. Mungo's was even more desolate than the first. Instead of a wide room, they stepped out into a circular room which branched off into four long hallways. Though they could hear faintly the voices of people talking, there wasn't sight of a soul in any of the hallways, just dimly lit marble floors leading off into blackness.

Melrough set off down the second hallway from the left, keeping the brisk, businesslike pace he'd set on the first floor. The hallway, as it turned out, was lined on either side by rows upon rows of rooms. Most of the doors were mercifully shut, but a few of them were thrown wide open, their occupants staring out, loosely following the form of the passing doctor, slightly absent, mostly unseeing. Severus stared back at them as they passed, but Melrough kept his gaze intentionally forward until his footsteps began to slow, his eyes now scanning the numbers on the doors.

"468," he muttered to himself, stopping at the door in question.

Severus stepped up behind him, but was careful not to get too close. Melrough had explained earlier that unlocking the wards on individual doors took a small amount of skill, and the magic was fairly uncomplicated; however, whilst Melrough was unlocking the wards, they would be performing a signature check of the caster. If Severus stood too far away, the permanent barriers that Melrough wasn't dismantling might reject him as a foreign body. If he stood too close, the removable wards would pick up his signature and let neither of them enter.

And, right now, at the threshold of Luna's door, with his blood pounding in his ears, to be caught was the last thing he needed.

After what seemed like an hour (but, in reality, was only half a minute), Melrough made a slight noise, and his hands (which had been weaving some pattern in the air) fell to his sides. As Severus watched, the door glimmered faintly gold.

When the door returned to its original state, Melrough reached for the handle. He paused.

Severus' pulse quickened, and he stepped closer, nearly standing on Melrough's heels.

With a final nod to no one, Melrough twisted the door handle, and pulled it open. Severus tensed.

Melrough didn't budge.

Severus jerked his head to his companion, black eyes wide, stomach feeling like it had fallen out. Why wasn't he moving? Horror spread like wildfire through his brain for about a second until his eyes landed on Melrough's barely moving lips.

And though the doctor was not speaking, Severus heard his words perfectly:

_One . . . two . . . three._

And, in one swift, completely synchronized motion, they both stepped through the threshold.

As soon as they were inside, Severus craned his neck to look back at the door; he held his breath, waiting. For what, he didn't quite know. An alarm? A hoard of wizards descending upon him, wands drawn?

But neither of these things presented themselves. The door hung open like a lazy yawn, and the hallway down which they had come was unnervingly quiet.

"Dr. Melrough."

Pulse spiking at the sudden noise, Severus turned back around to see two middle-aged men dressed in a white orderly uniforms. The one who had spoken stood from where he'd been sitting in a chair in one corner of the room. Though the stark white uniform should have made both of them instantly visible, neither Severus nor Melrough had noticed the man at first, since the room was completely dark, save for a small blue lantern on the wall.

Melrough (who had jumped every so slightly at the voice as well), forced a grim smile onto his features. "Bradley. Nice to see you. Nigel." He inclined his head.

The one named Nigel returned the gesture, but did not seem intent on staying; without a word, he crossed the room, opened the door with a few quick sigils, and stepped outside. One inside, one outside. Just as Melrough had said.

Bradley, the shorter of the two, pulled out a watch, checking the time. "You're early, sir," he remarked.

Melrough nodded, shifting the papers under his arm. "I know. I wanted to be here to observe her falling asleep."

They spoke softly, hardly more than murmurs in the darkness, but there was no need; the person they were attempting not to disturb was still very much awake.

"Dr. Bryan?"

 _That voice_. Severus felt his pulse flutter and his stomach do some amazing feat of gymnastics that he would have to consider later. For now, he simply turned.

And there she was. The little slip of a girl who'd saved both his life and his sanity. The young woman to whom he owed so much, yet asked so little of him. A pale blonde waif, draped in a shapeless hospital gown, wrists and ankles bound loosely by magical restraints, sitting up curiously in a featureless hospital bed.

Melrough's grim smile lost some of its tightness, becoming more genuine, his eyes softening as they turned to the girl who'd spoken. "Hello, Luna. Still awake?"

Luna Lovegood nodded dimly, eyes fluttering closed and open again slowly, a long, sleepy blink. Her head lolled to one side, tilting her entire body, and her eyes were glassy orbs of electric blue peeking out of her wan face. Drugged. Severus gritted his teeth.

Melrough, also taking in such observations, turned back to the orderly. "Sedatives?"

"About fifteen minutes ago. She should be out within another ten."

Severus ignored the alarms going off in his mind at those words. His eyes narrowed and he watched Luna even more closely, noting how she swayed slightly from side to side. She appeared to be humming faintly, although the tune was indistinguishable. Her eyes kept moving from Melrough, to Bradley, to the ceiling in one long circular motion, never really focusing on anything, just making a wide woozy sweep. It was enough to make him slightly dizzy, just watching her. Exactly how drugged up was she?

While Melrough and the orderly were busy murmuring to each other, Severus dipped a hand inside his robes, fingers searching in his pocket until he found the pearl. He held it in between his fingers, smoothing over it with his thumb as if to distract himself. With every swipe of his thumb, he could have sworn he felt it pulse, as though with its own heartbeat. Granting himself a minute to collect his thoughts, he closed his eyes, focusing his energy and mind.

The soft, infrequent words exchanged between Melrough and the orderly quickly faded into dim periphery as he withdrew into his own mind. He exhaled in long, measured breaths, attempting to ease some of the tension that was coiled tightly around him, at the same time reasoning away his avid impatience. It was almost debilitating, this suspenseful agitation; by his guess, it was around 8:30 or 8:45, and he had but minutes to wait until it was time to get to work. But those minutes were dragging by with the solemnity of centuries—a comparison which, while sounding overly-dramatic even to Severus, was aggravatingly accurate.

Severus opened his eyes once more, and took the opportunity to give a scathing glare at the unassuming orderly. Why wouldn't the wanker just _leave?_ Curling his lip nastily, he was about to embark on a mental tirade that was more means of distraction than anything else . . . when distraction came of its own vehicle.

A characteristic, all-too-familiar chill raced up Severus' spine. His entire body locked automatically and he stood stock-still.

He was being watched.

He was _invisible_ , and he was being _watched_.

Slowly, moving only his eyes, he turned his attention away from the oblivious orderly, towards the bed.

He felt his eyes widen. He swallowed hard.

Luna Lovegood was staring straight at him.

He couldn't even pretend to try and reason with himself otherwise. Her lolling stupor was not completely dissipated; her head still tilted from side to side arbitrarily, but her eyes were no longer dancing about aimlessly. They were locked in on him, the intensely absorbed, curious gaze of a kitten who has just spotted a bird lingering too long upon the ground. Her expression flitted through a myriad of microscopic emotions; filtered through her drug haze, they all came out unclear and unfocused, but there was no mistaking the confusion, the slight disbelief in her eyes.

She could see him. That much was plainly—bafflingly—obvious. Somehow, she could see him despite the invisibility cloak. But she seemed to doubt that he was really there. By the tilt of her head and the way her eyes cyclically widened and contracted (the sedatives must have been making it difficult to concentrate), she seemed to be trying to dispel him from her vision—as if he were a hallucination.

Who knew he would ever see the day when Luna Lovegood— who believed in knargles and wrackspurts, who passed no judgment, who accepted the most bizarre ideas as truths without batting an eyelash— would try and convince herself of something's nonexistence. Of _his_ nonexistence.

There was something deeply unsettling about that.

Severus bristled and looked down, checking himself. This wasn't the time to become morose. Speculation could wait.

When he looked back at Luna, she was still staring at him in that dazed, confused manner. Now, though, her mouth was also moving, opening and closing arbitrarily, as if she wanted to say something but kept forgetting the words.

The more closely he watched her mouth, however, the clearer the words became.

_Pro . . . pro . . . profess. . . ._

_Merlin_. Severus cast his glance in the direction of Dr. Melrough and the orderly, who were still talking in hushed voices. They were fairly wrapped up in their conversation but Melrough (damn him) kept looking to Luna every other phrase. After a few glances, it became obvious that Melrough knew what was going on; he chanced a split-second look to the corner where Severus stood frozen, then back to Luna. What little color his face had in the eerie bluish light drained out, and the young doctor began to look increasingly ill.

And though the orderly was not the brightest chap, it was difficult to miss the tacit exchanges going on. Now, when Melrough snuck a glance in Lovegood's direction, the orderly's gaze followed him. And dull as the man may have been, it was plain to Severus that he was growing suspicious.

"Miss Lovegood?"

Luna did not even look at the man. Severus was slightly uncertain whether she'd heard him.

Evidently, the orderly thought so as well, because he side-stepped away from Melrough, coming to the side of the bed. "Miss."

Luna's eyes remained locked on Severus, distracted and confused and slightly worried. She opened her mouth again.

"Pr . . pro . . ."

_Luna!_

He hadn't said her name aloud, hadn't even moved. But she halted immediately, as if he had. Her eyes were wide, watchful. Slowly, she closed her mouth.

And then opened it again in a petit yawn, closing her eyes as she did so. When she reopened her eyes, they were no longer trained on Severus. "Tired," she murmured to no one in particular.

Bradley the orderly nodded. "Are you going to sleep now?"

Luna blinked slowly, turning her head. "Am I wearing pajamas?"

"Yes."

"What about shoes?"

Melrough, who had until that point been standing slightly paralyzed where Bradley had left him, took the opportunity to alleviate the confusion from the other man's face. "She sleep walks," he supplied, stepping up to the bed as well. "Luna?"

Raising her small shoulders to crowd her ears, she slipped Melrough a shy smile. "Hi."

Melrough returned the smile with a warm, slightly sad one of his own. "Hi. Listen, Luna: I'm going to be monitoring your sleep. You will not be able to get up. Is that alright?"

She took a moment to reply to this. "I . . . yes. Sure. Okay."

Whilst Luna settled back into her bed, the orderly again took out his watch, checking the time. "It's almost time for shift change. My replacement should be here in a few minutes. Is there anything you would like me to do before I leave, Dr.?"

Melrough looked as though he was about to say no, then thought better of it. "Double check her restraints," he ordered quietly.

It was probably the appropriate thing to request, and perhaps the orderly would have done it anyway; however, neither of these thoughts did anything to console Severus. It was all he could do not to grind his teeth too loudly as the white-uniformed man tightened the bindings on the wrists and ankles of the slight-limbed, nearly-slumbering girl.

As the orderly was finishing his check of the magical bonds, movement from the other side of the room caused both Severus and Melrough to turn.

Severus' first thought was that this person would be the orderly covering the next shift. But the grey-haired wizard in neat navy blue robes standing in the doorway definitely didn't look like hospital muscle.

A glance at Melrough did nothing to ease Severus' nerves; under a remarkably maintained veneer of cool, the younger doctor looked like he was going to be sick on the spot.

"D—Dr. Standish."

The Mental Matters ward director inclined his head, and stepped further into the room, appraising the situation silently. Melrough continued to gape at the man, completely at a loss.

Instinctively, Severus brought a hand up to his chest, where the pearl hung from its silver chain. He held it tightly, its strange aura matching the frantic rhythm of his own pulse.

Melrough took a few steps towards the director, lowering his voice until it was nearly inaudible. "I did not know you would be joining me, sir," Severus heard him say.

The director spared a glance for Melrough, then looked back at Luna, whose breathing had evened out and deepened as to one on the brink of sleep. "This case if causing quite a stir," Standish replied just as quietly. "I wanted to observe her symptoms for myself."

"Of course," Melrough said quickly—what else could he say? He couldn't exactly kick the head of the department out of the room.

But he _needed_ to, that was the issue. It was bad enough that the orderly was still in the room—not to mention the one just outside—but having Standish presented a serious complication. It was completely unexpected, an unanticipated obstacle, a hurtle that was missed. He couldn't attempt anything with either Standish or the orderly still in the room, but they couldn't be ushered out without suspicion.

There was a small moan from the bed, and all four men turned to see Luna Lovegood turn her head sharply, then fall back into slumber. _Merlin_ ; only a few minutes asleep and she was already showing symptoms of an attack. Whatever they had given her had already succeeded in putting her into a deep slumber, making her mind vulnerable.

He _had_ to get them out. _Now_.

He looked to Melrough; sensing his gaze, the doctor's face turned towards him.

And it was the look on his face—the _lost-cause, let's come back another night, situation impossible_ look—that finally made up Severus' mind.

He waited just long enough for the orderly to bid both doctors good night and open the door to the hallway before drawing his wand.

His first charm was subtle. A simple flick of the wrist that caused the orderly to trip as he was crossing the threshold. Simple; but it had its desired effect.

It landed the unfortunate orderly flat out on the other side of the door, leaving the door wide open and causing both Melrough and Standish to rush to the fallen man.

Severus waited until they were all clustered together, helping up the orderly before throwing off the cloak.

_"Flippendo!"_

They all had about a split-second to look surprised before the spell hit them and forcefully knocked them backwards into the hallway. Severus wasted no time, brandishing his wand again with the quick efficiency of a skilled duelist.

_"Colloportus!"_

The door swung shut and glowed instantly green as it sealed itself.

Ignoring the immediate uproar of voices and banging, Severus strode over to Luna's bed. Carefully, he sat on the edge, watching her quietly for a few seconds. His heart beat was pounding in his ears.

Luna frowned, and he thoughtlessly reached across and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Millions of thoughts tried to flood his mind, but he shut them out, shut everything out. He shut out the sounds coming from outside, the voices having grown in number; he forgot his exhaustion, the anxiety spiking through him; he forgot doubt and fear. He remembered only all of those nights when he was lost in his own ravaged mind, only to awake to her face, her voice.

He rested the tips of his fingers against her cheek, and spoke quietly, his voice so soft it was almost completely inaudible. He repeated the phrase a little more loudly as he removed the pearl from his neck with his other hand; he placed it in one of Luna's slack palms and clasped their hands together. The phrase rolled again from his lips, and he let his eyes drop closed. Again, louder, this time lilting, like a song. Soon he was repeating it continuously, his voice seeming to echo throughout the room as it weaved a shapeless melody that danced around itself.

And finally, he was pulled under.

 

_//_

 

 

_Color. Everything, all around him. bright-shining, multifaceted, dark and deep, opaque, clear, warm, cold, sunlight, shadows. Everything was so colorful. Fantastical._

_It was no small wonder she lived in her head._

_But, for all the color, there was something else. Something filthy and foreign, curling silkily around the edges of dancing hues. Potent, dangerous, heavy, like a weight suspended by thin gauze. It was suffocating, bleeding out all of the colors, straining the shades and patterns, creating swirls of grey and pure, lethal black, noir tendrils stretching out like branches. Dead mind._

_Only it wasn't as expected. It was supposed to be a tumorous matter, a cancerous limb. A parasite clinging on the periphery. But it wasn't._

_Embedded._

_It was_ _**embedded** _ _in her mind._

 

//

 

"Who the bloody hell was that?! What happened?!"

Melrough shook his head at the irate director, dazed. What _had_ happened?

The orderlies (who were actually the ones on the receiving end of the director's bellowing) shook their heads stupidly. Poor bastards.

"I don't know," Bradley said. "One minute, I'm leaving, the next I'm flat—"

"I mean how the hell did he _get in_ , you idiot! How did you manage to let him get past the security wards, just so happen to not take notice of his presence—"

"He was invisible, _sir_ —"

"That shouldn't have bloody mattered! If you had been doing your job and paying attention, I'm sure he triggered some ward or alarm! But now there is a _man_ stuck in that room with a mentally unstable _teenaged girl_ — we don't even know who he _is_ —he could be a _psychopath_! Do you understand that?! Do you have any idea what he could be _doing_? What the _fucking hell_ is going _on_ in that room—?!"

"Sir!" Melrough shouted, interjecting and causing Standish to close his mouth. Melrough had his ear pressed against the door, and was straining to hear what was going on inside the room.

Standish's closed mouth lasted for only a few seconds. He rushed up to the door, getting in Melrough's personal space. "What is going on? What is he—?"

Melrough narrowed his eyes and made a violent shushing sound at Standish, who immediately clammed up. In another time, it might have been funny; but for now, Melrough was far more interested in learning what was occurring on the other side of the door to be sidetracked.

Impatient for a response, Standish mimicked Melrough, pressing his own ear to the door. The door was spelled with a standard muffling charm, but even despite that, both men could hear a continuous low murmuring.

The longer they listened, the sicker and angrier Standish looked, so Melrough closed his eyes and concentrated on the sonorous monotony of Severus' voice.

He only stopped when the GET arrived and pulled him away, as they made preparations to take down the door.

 

//

 

_He found her eventually._

_As much as it unsettled him, he followed the black-grey web-branches, watching them grow denser and more knotted around him. he followed them until only a little color, dull and dying bled through, like an inaudible cry for help._

_And there, where the black was at its densest, he found her. Suspended, wrapped almost completely in black tendrils, nothing but her small feet, hands, face, and one shoulder uncovered. She watched him solemnly as he approached._

_He tried to say her name, but nothing came out._

_She continued to study him, bright blue eyes sad and forlorn. Reaching out one hand, she tugged on a tendril of black, sending a shivering synaptic ripple down it, branching out into the next, and the next in the great network of black. Eyes still on him, she flicked it, as if demonstrating._

_"So you see," she said. "It is mine. I can't give it away. I can't let it go."_

_Again, he tried to speak._

_Again, nothing._

_Luna shook her head. As he watched, a black ribbon slithered further up her neck. "So you see. It's mine. I belong to it. It is part of me. I can't let it go."_

_And that too was like a song, slow and baleful._

_He held up the pearl, like a prize. But she still shook her head._

_"You can't. I'm sorry."_

_He came closer, close enough to touch. Close enough to see the myriad of blues in her eyes, close enough to tough her fly-away hair. Close. Not close enough._

_This time, when he opened his mouth to speak, the words did come._

_"Do you want it?"_

_He spoke into the shell of her ear, that small, imperfect circle, with its perfect missing lobe. And he couldn't see her face now, but he knew she closed her eyes when she let out that small shudder._

_And:—_

_"No. Not like this."_

_He almost wished he could shut out the choked sob that followed that sentence. "Let me help you."_

_She was shaking violently now, the black web encasing her vibrating. He slipped the pearl around her neck. It glowed brightly, white but not white, but every color, but black and grey, but blue and green, but red and yellow, but clear. As he drew back fractionally, his lips were allowed to graze her cheek. Close. Not close enough._

_His gaze dropped to her shoulder, creamy white exposed through ribbons of black. He touched the uprising of bone, the way it bled into the inky tendrils encircling her frame. He grasped the black in his hands, tugged at it, exposing another inch of white flesh. He loosened it more, and some of the black from her neck fell away. And more. The black hung limp from her body._

_He pulled. Ripped. Shredded. She trembled._

_The pearl glowed._

 

//

 

"Everyone stand back."

Along with Standish, the orderlies, and the rest of the GET, Melrough took a large step back as the GET wizard who had spoken took stance in front of the door. As they all watched, the GET wizard drew his wand from his sleeve, narrowed his eyes at the door, and raised his wand.

He was about to utter an incantation when, from the other side of the closed door, there was the unmistakable sound of a vast absorption of energy, and the tiny sliver of a gap between the door and the floor glowed bright white. A man's voice shouted over the roar.

And then stopped. The light under the door went out. And, quite suddenly, everything went eerily still.

Seconds ticked by while Melrough and the rest of the group listened for any signs of movement from inside the room. But there was nothing, only an eerie silence.

Standish was the first to recover.

"Open that damn door, _now_ ," he snapped. "Open it!"

The GET wizard did not have to be told twice. This time when he raised his wand, he delivered the spell to the door in two swift motions.

There was a loud crack, like the sound of a firecracker, as the yellow spell hit the door and the magical barriers protecting it. The door cracked in a jagged line down the center, and it made a thunk as it was broken from its hinges.

Unable to stop himself, Melrough sucked in a quick, gasping breath. For the last few minutes, he'd been trying desperately not to reveal how anxious he was; now, it seemed like a lost cause. Too many thoughts were racing about in his brain to leave room for caring about appearances. Severus had only been in that room for ten minutes—thirteen tops—while the GET had tried various methods of opening the door. Hadn't he said the procedure would take twenty? At least? There was no way he would have managed to complete it. And that flash of light—what had that been? Severus hadn't mentioned any outbursts of energy as a result of the technique. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone horribly, terribly wrong—

"Melrough!"

He jumped as Standish sharply called out his name. Fearfully, he diverted his attention to the department director, feeling his stomach flutter unpleasantly.

But Standish wasn't looking at him; like everyone else, he was staring intently at the door, face set in a grim expression.

"Draw your wand."

Hand shaking slightly, Melrough slipped his wand from the pocket of his robe; he held it at the ready dutifully, swallowing hard.

Standish glanced around at the GET, meeting eyes with the leader, who had taken up stance by the broken door. The two wizards nodded at each other.

The second spell landed on the door broke it solidly in two; it fell inward, and no sooner did it clatter to the floor than the entire GET team, followed closely by Standish, swooped inside.

Melrough stood in the dark, silent hallway for a few seconds, breathing shallowly. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to calm himself.

Then, taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes, and followed them all through the doorway, prepared for the worst.

But not prepared, it seemed, for the scene that awaited him.

He entered the room to find the entire GET standing in a wide semi-circle around the bed, wands half-way raised, expressions a mixture of uncertain and bewildered. Out of the corner of his eye, Melrough saw Standish, wand hanging loosely in his hand at his side, mouth open in a cartoonish gape.

Melrough couldn't blame him.

For there, sitting upright in the hospital bed, was Luna Lovegood, looking as bright, cheery and refreshed—positively _rosy_. She sat there, in her shapeless, oversiszed white gown, beaming at them all and holding a finger to her lips. As Melrough looked, he saw a the glint of a small, hematite-like object on a chain dangling from her neck.

And next to her, slumped over in a chair, his head and arms resting on the bed, was Severus Snape. Out cold.

And, as they all stood around the unlikely pair, gaping in stunned silence, Luna let out an almost inaudible giggle.

She began to hum.


	11. Black Knight Moves Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First of all, I apologize for it taking me so long to update. School kind of made it impossible to work. But here you are. This was actually supposed to be the epilogue, but I found that there were too many loose ends to wrap up. So, it ended up being another chapter instead.

He was really beginning to hate hospitals.

Not that he hadn't disliked them before, but the sheer amount of time he was spending in recovery wards and infirmaries as of late was, frankly, ridiculous. And annoying. Deeply.

It didn't help that, for the first few days he was in recovery, he was also under arrest. Despite the fact that he was having trouble staying conscious (removing the parasite from Luna's mind took less time than he'd anticipated, but vastly more energy) aurors kept breezing in and out of his ward, trying to prod him with questions and get the full story. When he was conscious, Severus was more than willing to cooperate, even if his foul mood didn't communicate as much (to his credit, it was difficult not to snap at people when one's brain felt like it had been run over repeatedly by the Hogwarts Express). He told the aurors everything, from the point where he and Dr. Melrough had realized what was wrong with Luna up to the point where he locked himself inside Luna's room with her—thought he discreetly chose to make Melrough's involvement obscure at best. According to Severus' reports, Melrough had stopped communication beyond the point of updating him on Luna's status once she was moved to the hospital. It was Severus who had gathered all the security information needed to successfully enter St. Mungo's; once he'd learned that Melrough would be on duty that night, Severus had followed him and gotten in via Melrough's access, whilst the other remained oblivious that he was being of aid.

(Somehow, he managed to get by without even mentioning the Invisibility Cloak. Since he'd woken up without it, he initially thought it had been confiscated by the aurors; but, apparently, in the confusion, Melrough had quietly gathered it up and removed it from the scene without notice.)

The questions were seemingly endless and repetitive, and more than once did an auror try to make him concede that Melrough had been knowingly involved. But Severus stuck to his story, and eventually they believed him, or at least stopped trying to make him to admit something different.

In addition to the questioning, charges were being brought against him. Melrough had assured him that most of the charges were likely to be dropped, that it was just a formality, that since the end justified the means it was unlikely that he would actually be tried. Even still, the list was quite long. Breaking and entering, deception of a medical professional, impersonating that professional in order to breach top security wards, performing unlicensed magics upon a patient, performing unlicensed and untested magic in general, unlawful access to a top-security patient, assaulting medical personnel, holding a patient hostage . . . it went on. He tried not to think about it too much.

It was a comfort when, by the third day of arrest, the aurors saw fit to remove the magical cuffs they had placed on him. It was that day, also, that Melrough was finally allowed to visit him.

Severus didn't think it very prudent, and he communicated as much as soon as Melrough entered his heavily guarded ward.

"Get out."

Melrough simply gave a small grin in response to his sharp tone. "Well. Someone's feeling better."

Severus sat up a little, trying not to be annoyed. "I am serious, Melrough. You should not be here. I have managed to convince the aurors that you were not involved, but if you come in all friendly smiles and no-hard-feelings, you are bound to raise susp—"

"You know," Melrough interjected breezily, "for a man who is suffering from mild- to severe head trauma, you speak with remarkable acridity and clarity. Been practicing on the nurses?"

Severus glared at him. "Do not get cute with me, Doctor."

"I would not dream of it, sir." Melrough drew up a chair and sat down by Severus, where he lay in the hospital bed. Slightly teasing expression dimming, Melrough looked at the tiled floor. "Thank you, by the way. For . . . not incrim—"

"Stop," Severus ordered. Even though Melrough spoke so low and softly that he couldn't possibly be heard (not by the orderlies standing outside the ward, anyway), Severus did not want to take a single chance. He also didn't think he could bear hearing the doctor bestow his full gratitude. It might make him vomit, and he was having enough trouble keeping food down as it was.

Melrough continued to look at the floor, expression serious. "Standish spoke to me," he said in the same low tones. "He believes that I didn't have anything to do with it. But he also understands that, while I don't approve of . . . what you did, as a concerned colleague I am, of course, inclined to want to see how you're progressing."

Here, Melrough sat back and looked Severus directly in the eye. When he spoke next, his voice was a bit louder.

"He isn't angry," Melrough told him. "I mean, he was initially. But once he could sit back and assess all of the facts, he simmered down quite a bit. Actually, if anything, he's rather impressed—with you, that is. Impressed a) at your willingness to help Ms. Lovegood at whatever risk yourself, b) that you single-handedly managed to break into one of the most highly protected magical facilities in Great Britain, much less Europe; and c) your Transference Theory. He's more than hinted that he would love a chance to talk to you about it, whenever you recover."

Severus raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I thought he was pressing charges against me."

"No, that's the hospital. And the only reason they're doing it is because they are required to. Despite the fact that you saved a patient, they can't really ignore all of your miscellaneous crimes. They have to at least file a report. Standish seems to think the charges will be dropped, though. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a hand in discharging you himself. He's rather keen on you—everyone is, actually—"

Severus barely contained a groan. He closed his eyes and brought a hand to his temple. "Please. Do not remind me."

Instead of heeding his request, Melrough just smiled and produced a folded-up copy of the Daily Prophet. He waved it at Severus. "Would you like to know this morning's headline?"

"No—"

"Then how about some choice sections," Melrough said, ignoring him as he unfolded the Prophet on his lap. He quickly scanned the main article, smiling when he found what he was looking for. "aha. Here's something—"

"Would you—"

"'More acts of heroism from the former Deatheater and spy, Master Severus Snape'. Well, at least they got your title right."

"Oh, thank heaven for th—"

"blah blah blah 'in a courageous and somewhat hare-brained feat of daring and ingenuity, Master Snape broke into the supposedly impenetrable St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies just three days ago… once again, Master Snape's seemingly dubious actions appear at first downright unclear in motive and Slytherin in nature, prove in the end to be selfless acts of bravery'—good Merlin, I think they almost called you a Gryffindor—"

"Would you put that bloody thing away before I stuff it down your throat?" Severus growled.

Melrough gave him a wry expression and folded the paper primly. "Now, see, that wouldn't be a grand idea on your part, because killing a doctor is something they could actually put you on trial for—"

"Are you done?"

"No. I think I'll stay and torment you a bit more, if that's alright."

That was his cue to protest and caustically dismiss the young, chipper doctor—but he didn't take it. Truth be told, the irritation he had been voicing was mostly false; secretly, he was rather glad to be talking to someone who wasn't just asking about his vital signs or whether or not he had anything further to say about his allegedly criminal actions.

As Melrough bent over slightly to lay the condemning newspaper under his chair, Severus found himself asking: "Did you manage to stay out of the papers?"

Straightening, Melrough nodded. "Yes—that is, they mentioned the involvement of 'a doctor from St. Mungo's' but I'm not named. If there is one thing Standish is adept at, it's steering his staff clear of scandal."

"And Luna?"

"Anonymous."

Severus let go of a breath he didn't know he was holding. Thank Circe for small favors. "Fancy that," he murmured, almost to himself. "I was almost expecting some sort of implication of a scandalous liaison. Perhaps even a juicy picture of me lying unconscious in my hospital confinements. After all, they managed to break into Hogwards; St. Mungo's ought to be a cakewalk."

"Ah. Well, it would seem that problem has been resolved."

Severus raised a silky black brow. "Oh?"

Melrough smiled somewhat grimly. "Yes. A few days ago, Headmistress McGongall and Professor Flitwick set up a network of detection charms around the school. Apparently, they caught a bug."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Skeeter."

Melrough nodded. "Yes. Though she is no longer officially working for the Prophet, it seems they still have her on payroll. Naturally, the Prophet wants to maintain its good standing with the public; so, in exchange for keeping this dirty little operation hush-hush, they have agreed to essentially sell Skeeter up the river—along with her collaborator and 'replacement', Mr. Travis Walsh. They are both making overly generous donations to Hogwarts that might very well keep them in debt for decades."

At this, Severus merely gave a slow nod. It was less than he could have hoped for, honestly, and it was probably for the best that he was currently bedridden. Otherwise, Ms. Skeeter and her protégé Mr. Walsh would be losing much more than just galleons.

Melrough studied the older man for a moment, before observing, "You aren't satisfied."

"No."

"Luna predicted as much. She says you aren't one to take punishment lightly."

"An interesting observation coming from her, considering that she has only ever received one detention from me." Shifting in his bed, Severus sat up a bit straighter and asked, "How is she?"

Melrough gave a little smile, accompanied by a small shrug. "Well. Still loony as ever, but well. Much more chipper. Her eating is slightly peckish, but we're working on that. No nightmares, though, and she sleeps fairly regularly . . . although she's still doing her sleepwalking bit. Nurse Maggie caught her outside yesterday, plodding around barefoot in the snow."

Severus frowned. "That is odd," he murmured.

"I thought her sleepwalking was nor—"

"It is," Severus said impatiently; at the odd and slightly uncomfortable look he received from Melrough, he hastily amended, "At least, according to her it is. However, she ordinarily wears footwear to sleep for that reason."

Melrough looked thoughtful. "She mentioned that, whenever she was pulled into the lake by your Giant Squid, Edwin—"

"Irwin," Severus corrected without thinking.

Melrough gave him a strange look. "Erm, yes. Irwin. Well, she mentioned that he took her shoes."

The image of bright yellow, lace-up high-tops swam to the surface of Severus' mind and he nodded slowly. "He did."

"Maybe those were her last pair—what is it?"

Severus had turned away from Melrough to reach over to his bedside table, plucking up a quill and notepad bearing the St. Mungo's letterhead. He scribbled a few things down on the notepad; then, he tore off the sheet, folded it in half, and handed it to Melrough.

"Take this to Xavier's in Hawkin Square. It's just on the other side of Knockturn Alley," Severus instructed. The words he delivered with his usual authority, but there was a certain . . . discomfort about him, almost furtive.

Melrough raised his eyebrows at the mention of Xavier's but did not, to his credit, look at what had been written on the paper. Instead, he took it and tucked it neatly into the inner breast pocket of his robes, sitting back once more in his seat.

Feeling both slightly pleased with himself and slightly foolish (a mix of emotions that was both exhilarating and extremely unsettling), Severus gave the smallest of sighs and ran a hand through his hair—and found his irritation with hospitals renewed when he remembered that they had shorn a good deal of it off. No longer lanky, it was now only a scant 6 or 7 centimeters long. Magic-induced head trauma did not ordinarily leave physical marks, but hemorrhaging wasn't unheard of; his hair, he'd been told, had been chopped off to better assess and repair the damage. He ran a hand through it again, this time feeling out the change more fully; he couldn't be sure whether or not he liked this. But the principle of the thing—that someone had cut his bloody hair without asking—was still a sore spot.

Melrough watched him complacently. "It's a good look for you," he said conversationally, as if Severus had asked his opinion.

Which he hadn't. Obviously. Severus turned his attention back to the doctor and sneered at him. "Implying what exactly?"

In anyone else, that kind of acidity would have provoked some amount of abashment or defensiveness. But Melrough merely rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a prat. In all likelihood, you'll be out in a week; then you can make as much hair-regrowth potion you like."

Severus gave him a look that was one part mock-offended and two parts reserved amusement. "'Prat'? What a formidable bedside manner you have. I shall have to report you for verbal abuse if you continue to carry on this way."

"Merlin, the nurses must simply love you."

"I daresay they have, in their own special way, grown rather fond."

"They'll be heartbroken to see you go."

"Yes; I expect many flowers and tearful goodbyes," Severus deadpanned.

Melrough snorted. "You forgot to mention requests for photos and autographs. You're a celebrity, remember? And with that new haircut of yours, you might just have to fight them off with a stick."

Here, Severus closed his eyes and massaged his temples; there was a smirk that was trying its best to work its way onto his face, though it was sorely impeded by his almost ever-present headache. "Stop trying to make me laugh," he muttered from behind his hands.

"Why?" the young doctor asked impertinently.

"Because you are spectacularly bad at it and it causes me physical pain."

"That is my job as a doctor."

Severus took his hands away, looking at Melrough. "But you aren't my doctor," he pointed out.

"No."

"You're just sitting with me."

"True."

". . . why?"

A few beats of silence followed this tentative question. Eventually, Melrough sighed and his wonderful eyebrows danced about a bit on his forehead before he solemnly replied:—

"You might say I've grown rather fond."

Through heavy black eyes Severus studied him, fully and quietly. I've grown rather fond. The words curled idly through his skull; they gave him a strange feeling, one not necessarily pleasant. Perturbing, he thought as his gaze wandered down the row of buttons on Melrough's uniform.

"That seems rather dangerous of you, doctor," he heard himself murmur.

Melrough tilted his head to the side. "How so?"

There was a beat of silence while Severus gazed, slightly mesmerized by the silver buttons, bearing the hospital's crest. Then, as if waking from a stupor, Severus gave his head a little shake, and looked back to Melrough's confused face. The look he fixed him with was rather unfamiliar to Severus' features, a sort of wry expression normally given to children who ask questions like "where do babies come from?"

"Because," he intoned, "to say so might make others reconsider your sanity."

Like a burst of sunlight shining through grey clouds, Melrough's expression cleared instantly into one of equally wry mirth. "Well, given the nature of my work environment, I think that much is inevitable regardless. Speaking of which," Melrough gave a cursory glance to the clock over the door, "I probably ought to be returning to said work."

"Merlin forbid I keep you from attending to my fellow lunatics."

That earned an eye-roll from the young doctor as he stood from his chair. "Yes, quite. Shall I send for a healer to administer another pain-reliever?"

Severus, who had taken to massaging his temples again, quickly jerked his hand away. "No," he said quickly. "And you may tell them that I will take no more unless they learn to brew that potion properly. It is supposed to be mildly narcotic, not sleep-depriving. It should be a delicate pink—not bloody fiuscha—"

"Right, duly noted. Shall I check in on you tomorrow?"

"I'm not in any position to stop you, am I?"

As Melrough reached the door, he turned back to look at Severus, shaking his head. "You are a very difficult and contentious man, you know that?"

"It's one of the few facts in which I may still take comfort," he muttered to the closing door.

 

//

 

For several minutes after Melrough had gone, Severus continued to stare fixedly at the door, inky eyes glazed over, deep in thought. He scryed the surface of the dark polished wood, absently tracing patterns and imperfections whilst recycling and gleaning over pieces of their conversation in his mind.

A week, he'd said. No more than a week—dare he believe it? A week and he would be free of this godforsaken place; free of his cabin fever and these immaculate grey-white walls; free of nurses and orderlies and caseworkers; free of stupid hospital garments and improperly brewed potions. Free of charges and free of pain. He would be granted impunity and autonomy. It should have sounded like a miracle, his very own hallelujah chorus. He ought to feel excited; at the very least, relieved.

But he felt none of that. Instead, what betook him was not a sense of relief, but an inexplicable, disquieting sense of dread. Again, perturbing.

But why, he wondered, should I feel thus? It was distressingly illogical, this strange and unshakeable sense of consternation. Was this not part of what he worked for his whole life? To win an existence free from burden, sins acknowledged and atoned for? A life of his own?

Yet he did not feel unburdened; and it seemed that nothing had been atoned for, the deeds tattooed into his skin simply mottled and disfigured to resemble a faded stain on his flesh, a bruise rather than a brand.

It felt, he realized, that not only had he failed to completely atone not, but he had also been stripped of the right and opportunity to do so. This little crusade of his—his life's work, so to speak—it was as if someone had completely erased it from his history. As if it meant nothing and there was nothing he could do to get those years back.

And there was no future either, it seemed, for what was he to do when he was released? There was no war to fight, and almost all the former Deatheaters were dead or had already been hunted down. There was no cause to devote himself to. Merlin forbid he go back to teaching (he couldn't think of anything more pathetic than wasting his last years babysitting teenagers). Retirement wasn't an option either: the sheer and utter boredom would drive him batshit crazy.

Possibly the most disturbing aspect of these musing was how much they made him wish Lovegood was there. Sitting beside him, wide electric-blue irises winking, a small smile playing around her mouth. She would just nod and hum and smile, and he wouldn't have to think about anything of these things because, somehow, they wouldn't really matter in her presence. Nothing tragic or grave seemed to last around her, the simple light of her dispelling all dark matters; she made them dissipate into thin air, as if they never were.

Mentally, Severus shook himself. He had no right to be indulging in such thoughts, innocent enough as they were. Ms. Lovegood was, more or less, cured of her illness, and he had no business being in any further relation with her. Dreamy and wayward girl that she was, she might go on with her life and never spare these last few months a second thought; close this volume of life for good. He wouldn't blame her. He ought to do the same.

But if this were a chapter of life, he found himself unable to move onto the next. Instead he sat, stagnant, turning back pages and replaying instances and basking and wallowing in memories beautiful and terrible, humorless and hilarious.

He wanted to live in those memories forever. He wanted to close his eyes and never wake up.

But that was something too, wasn't it? If he dared to think about it, indulge in the fantasy for even a moment— these fresh memories of the last few months were proof enough. Proof that there was . . . well, something. Something more.

Severus permitted himself a deep sigh. He had been too young when he started—and now that he had finished, he felt too old. Had he learned nothing? Gained nothing? Melrough seemed to think that he would be granted full impunity; but prison, it seemed, might have been something of a relief. If he were to go to prison, he would not have to think of the future. All his days would be laid out for him. There would be no more figuring out, no more trying. He had nothing to go back to, not like the others: his entire life was a crusade. He was a hunter, a spy, a war-machine: what use had he for peace? What would life without war be like? The question left him drawing a blank.

He had spent the majority of his life simply subsisting, getting by. Just surviving. Did he know how to merely live? He had been a master strategist, able to maneuver around anything, learned to expect everything— well, everything but this. But what had he to live for now?

This time, when the sunlit image of Luna Lovegood floated to the surface of his mind, he let it stay there where it basked, soft and warm and lovely against the black backdrop of his mind. Just a girl, no more than sixteen, soon to be seventeen. No mother. No father. No home. No shoes. The world had orphaned her as he had orphaned himself. But she wasn't jaded—the furthest thing from it. For her, the world still held hope and mystery.

Perhaps that was why he saw those things in her.

The edges of his mouth tilted downwards slowly, settling into a dissatisfied frown. He had never thanked her properly, he realized. For all the things she'd done for him, for all she'd put up with, for all the mirth and patience she'd shared, he hadn't shown any appropriate amount of gratitude.

It wouldn't do.

There was no way to repay her, he knew. What she'd given him was not appraisable, was too precious to be assigned any palpable value. But this was not about settling a debt; this was about doing something, just for her.

All in good time, he assured himself. He needed to be out of this bloody hospital first.

 

//

 

Fortunately, as Melrough had predicted, his stay did not last through the week. On the fifth day of his confinement, it was announced to him that the legal charges had been officially dropped, and the final paperwork for his pardoning was being processed. By the sixth, Melrough (who'd been paying him a visit ever since he was allowed to have such) ecstatically told him that not only had he been fully exalted, but the hospital had issued a full and public apology. Though it was thankfully not splashed over the front page of the paper (some other scandal had taken precedence) there was a sensational and overly-done article about it on the second page of the Prophet—which Melrough took great pleasure in waving in front of his face.

"Really, this should have gotten the front page," Melrough gloated, shaking the paper and grinning. "A full, formal, and public apology! I don't think this has ever happened in the history of St. Mungo's. This is all Standish, mind you."

"Yes. It makes me wonder what he wants. And don't be so giddy; if you read the entire article, you'd know that the Aurors are still looking into the matter. They are not convinced."

Melrough shook his head. "Doesn't matter. This is brilliant! You've made history—"

"That, good doctor, is nothing new. I should be quite glad to lead a decidedly non-historically relevant existence – once I am discharged from here, that is."

"Doing what, precisely?"

"I haven't the faintest."

"Well, be sure to leave room in your schedule for Standish. As I said, he's very keen on you. You will most likely be hearing from him soon."

And, once again, Melrough's prediction did come true: for though the prestigious hospital director did not come to call on Severus personally, the potions master did receive a letter containing both apology and commendation. And though the epistle did not convey _specifically_ that Standish would like to hire Severus as part of a special research team for the hospital, there was never the less enough implication to make him suspicious.

That same day, he also received a small parcel, neatly wrapped in brown paper. As the sender did not leave their name, he hesitated slightly when unwrapping it—though once he realized what it was, he finished doing so quickly.

Setting the wrapping paper down, he held the humble object in the palm of his hand, studying it contemplatively. Experimentally, he smoothed his thumb over the object's cool marble neck, moving then over its carved eyes and mane.

As he set the black chess piece on his bedside table, he noticed that, on the inside of the brown wrapping paper, there was something written in a tiny cursive script that had almost escaped his notice. The note was only two words, but they filled him instantly with warmth.

_Thank you._


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Oh my holy cheese and toast, I'm DONE! Thank you all for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed this. I have.

_March 17_

_Dear Sir,_

_Thank you for finally replying to my letters—though I'm not entirely sure I_ _**should** _ _thank you, seeing as it was rather rude of you to ignore them in the first place. What kind of person neglects letters from his own godson? So silly of me to think that I might be worth your time and attention. You're lucky that young doctor friend of yours is a quick correspondence, otherwise I might have assumed you were dead._

_Since both you and Dr. Melrough have commented that you are settling in nicely at your new post, I cannot find reason to think you're lying. On the whole, I like the idea: it fits you perfectly. It's slightly solitary, unromantic, clinical, delicate, and highly sophisticated. You haven't mentioned what they are paying you for your contribution, but I imagine that it's a far cry more than what you were making here at Hogwarts. You could be living rather large by now, I'm certain, which is why I don't understand the flat. Why not buy an estate instead? A much more solid investment, I should think. I could be of great assistance in helping you find one. Take it into consideration._

_Thank you for asking about Harry; he is doing very well. We're all still . . . recovering, I suppose. I can't imagine what it's like for him, trying to be normal after seventeen years of being "the Chosen One". It must be a somewhat similar situation to yours. As with you, he is burying himself in his work, focusing most of his energy on trying to graduate with our class. Considering all the school he missed, he's doing very well, although essay-writing is still his Achilles' heel. His handwriting is awful. Please refrain from comment._

_Thought you haven't asked, I will tell you that Luna is doing extremely well. She enjoys her new shoes, by the way; they suit her perfectly. The whole color-changing feature is a bit revolting to me, but she seems to like it just fine; they usually stay yellow most days. Though I find the other spells more interesting; the one that forbids others from removing them is rather useful in her case, I imagine, since I know she had a problem with having shoes stolen. It's quite effective; Harry tried at them for at least half an hour before giving up (perseverance or infamous Gryffindor stupidity?). Are they custom-made? I'll bet they're expensive. Where was it? Velinia's? Xavier's? Why would Dr. Melrough ask me to tell you about Luna? Is there something going on that I don't know about?_

_I command you to write back. Or visit. I can't fault your reasons for staying away thus far, but surely it would be all right now? It's been over a month; surely they have better things to do than investigate a decorated war hero with a history of unruly conduct? I would enjoy seeing you, and so would Harry. We're spending the weekend at the Manor; I'm not entirely sure how comfortable we are with this, but Father won't be there (obviously) and Mother has been insisting on getting to know Harry better. You should stop by; maybe you can talk her out of trying to introduce him to all of our relatives._

_Regardless, you should at least visit Hogwarts. Luna would be over the moon. Think about it._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco_

 

_//_

 

Walking up to the large wooden double doors of the school, Severus folded up the letter and put it into the inside pocket of his robe, and used the large brass knocker to make his presence known. He stood back, shaking his head and marveling. Merlin, the boy had sass; no doubt a trait inherited from his father, but the recent pronouncement of it could be attributed to Potter, _surely_. It made Severus wonder what other effects (ill or otherwise) the Boy Who Lived was inspiring in his godson. He would find out Sunday, no doubt. That would certainly be a luncheon to remember.

There was a heavy creaking sound as one of the doors swung open to reveal a very grey but very glad looking Professor McGonagall.

"Severus," she greeted him with a genuine smile.

Severus inclined his head respectfully. Having decided not to let his hair grow out, he had long stopped expecting it to briefly obscure the sides of his face as it once did, having grown familiar with the way it swept the tops of his ears as it did now.

"You look well," she commented, appraising him as she opened the door wider for his entrance.

As he stepped over the threshold, Severus glanced down at his attire and smirked slightly. As in the past, he still sported black over-robes, though they were simpler and less billowing. And, instead of his severe, black academic garb, he now wore casual black pants and a dark blue turtle-neck shirt. "A fair few people have been telling me as much—although I suspect that is because I no longer dress like a 'great black bat' as it were."

Minerva chuckled slightly. "Yes, that might be it. But, really, you do look well. One might even say that you look _good."_

"Thank you. You look—"

"Tired," she interrupted. "I know."

"I was going to say 'radiant as ever'."

At that, Minerva nearly blanched; however, she recovered her shock quickly, and quipped back, "Don't try to beslaver me, Severus. Flattery was never your strong suit."

"Yes, well, you've so rarely been on the receiving end."

"Let's keep it that way—"

She stopped as she saw Severus focus move from her face to a point behind her shoulder. She turned slightly, twisting her head to look back.

About fifteen feet away, hovering on the second step of the grand staircase, stood a slight, blue-eyed, blonde-haired someone, grinning as if Christmas had just walked in.

Unable to stop herself, Minerva smiled. She straightened and turned to Severus.

"I believe you're here to see someone."

Looking as though she were trying her hardest not to skip or run, Luna sauntered up to them. He took in the sight of her, marveling at how strange it was to see her in her school uniform, having gotten so used to her in nothing but those ridiculously thin hospital gowns. The past month and a half had done her much good; her skin, while still pale, no longer had a ghostly pallor, but more a creamy tone. The large dark circles under her eyes had all but vanished, and the smile she greeted him with was full and uninhibited. The pearl, black and smoky-looking, hung innocuously from a thin chain around her neck.

McGonagall looked between them, a thin grin flickering over her worn facial features. Trying to hide it, she pursed her lips and nodded at Severus. "I shall leave you to it, then." She inclined her head. "Severus."

As her footsteps faded off and she rounded a corner, Luna's entire attention was concentrated on him, blue eyes studying and sweeping every inch of him. He couldn't help but notice with no small amount of satisfaction that her smile kept growing wider and wider at the sight of him.

When her eyes finally traveled back to his face, she was grinning from ear to ear. She didn't make any kind of comment, just continued to look at him, mirth dancing in her eyes, teasing almost

"Hello," she sang.

He saw his smile in her eyes.

 

//

 

They walked the grounds, settling themselves into a semi-quietude broken occasionally by the sound of birds, or Luna's own soft voice. Occasionally, they came across groups of students, heading back from or to Hogsmeade or wherever; they chattered amiably until they came across the former professor and his companion, whereupon they all instantly hushed, and passed by wide-eyed, like frightened children. As soon as they passed, furious whispering broke out amongst them.

Severus, having long dealt with this sort of reaction to him, took very little notice, even less so when he saw that it didn't concern Luna any. In fact, she seemed rather pleased, sneaking glances over her shoulder to look back at the gaggle of ogling students.

"This is fun, stromping around with you," she commented airily as another group passed them. "It feels scandalous."

At this, Severus gave into a small snicker that caused the students' horrified faces to become even more distorted. "Apparently it _looks_ scandalous."

He sensed rather than saw the grin that spread over Luna's features as she traipsed on next to him. In near unison, they marched forward, coming now to the edge of the lake. Glancing down briefly, Severus saw that Luna's shoes, which had previously been a light blue, were now sporting a jovial yellow hue.

"It's a pity that you came so late in the afternoon," Luna lamented mildly. "Harry and Draco have already left for the weekend. They would have liked to see you."

"I will be meeting with them soon enough," he said evenly as they wandered around the lake's edges. They were approaching now a small cluster of trees; something warm stirred in Severus as he recognized one of them as the tree Luna had hidden herself in all those weeks ago. "Narcissa and Draco both have invited me to have lunch with them on Sunday. I imagine it should prove interesting."

Luna giggled. "I've never met Mrs. Malfoy. What does she smell like?"

Severus made a sound that was somewhere between a huff and a laugh. "What a question. I haven't got a bloody clue."

Luna stopped and tilted her head at him. "Why not? I know what _you_ smell like."

A few paces ahead of her, he stopped as well, turning back to quirk a black eyebrow at her. "Do you?" he queried with some incredulity.

She looked at him very seriously, nodded. "Of course. You always smell like smoke and sandalwood. Except sometimes you smell like rain. But always you smell like you."

He didn't know what to say. He just looked at her while she rocked back and forth on her heels. Her blue eyes roved around, seeming to roll up and down every detail in the landscape, over his form, his face. For a brief moment, her eyes stilled, and it seemed that she was somewhere else. But then she blinked, and returned her gaze to his.

"Show you something?"

Having tread the path only at night, it was unrecognizable to him the golden afternoon glow, and he did not realize where they were heading until they were standing just before the little gothic archway.

He hesitated for a brief moment as Luna slipped through the small gap in the stone. Then followed her inside.

For a moment, he thought his eyes might be deceiving him. Spring had not yet truly set upon Hogwarts, the foliage and flowers not yet in full bloom, but here . . . here the ground was almost completely covered in small buds and blossoms. Their colors were soft, bright, almost as if the petals themselves were glowing; white and light blue predominated, though there were several smaller patches of green; flowers so deep indigo they were almost black winked out like dark stars from amidst the sea brighter pastels. They glittered atop silvery-translucent stems, swaying even though there was no breeze. There was a small pathway leading into the center of the courtyard, where a circular stone slab had been placed; Luna stood atop it, looking back at him, smiling.

Slowly, she raised both hands above her head and clapped once.

In a blinding flurry, the flowers lifted from their places in the ground, and began swirling around them, as if trapped in a whirl-wind. Blossoms flew past him, brushed his hair, his face, his hands. A high, sweet hum rose, so faint it only tickled his senses.

And, as he looked around himself, as the swirling flora eased into an easy, almost lazy circumvent of the courtyard, he began to see: names. Inscribed on the petals, almost too faint to see. Their names. All of their names.

From where she stood on the pedestal, the focal point of the centrifuge, Luna caught his eye. She hugged herself. Smiled.

He couldn't help it.

He smiled back.

 

//

 

As they walked back to the castle, she told him about her plans.

She was staying on for her seventh year. She would graduate next spring with a concentration in natural magics; she was hoping to get an apprenticeship with some prestigious naturalist Flitwick had introduced her to. Since she had no parents or relatives that could take her in, and no home to go back to, she was considered a ward of the ministry until she reached 17. The Weasley's had asked her to stay with them for the summer, and she had a standing invitation to visit Draco at Malfoy Manor, which she though odd, all things considered, but decided that she wouldn't mind as long as Draco were with her.

While he digested all of this, she looked to him and inquired: "And you? What are you going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"With your life. Besides work, that is."

He pondered for a moment. "I don't rightly know. Truthfully, I have not actually thought about it." His mouth quirked. "Any suggestions?"

Luna's eyes widened to the size of saucers, mouth dropping open in excitement. "If I were you, I'd do _everything_ ," she replied seriously. "I'd travel. Go treasure hunting. Learn to waltz. Learn to fence. Tame a dragon. Join a circus. Become a reputable hurdy-gurdy player. Cure a disease. Play chess with a goblin. Write a book. Sleep all day." She smiled wonderingly at him.

"Right," he said. "I'll get to it then, shall I?"

She wrinkled her face at him. "You're making fun of me."

He didn't look at her, keeping his face forward as they trudged along, but all the while smirking. "I wouldn't dare."

She didn't have a reply to that, merely gave a small, tinkling laugh, and sidled up closer, looping her arm through his.

She did not pull away until they were back before the great wooden doors, and then only to plant herself directly in front of him. She looked up seriously into his face.

"Thank you, sir."

He shook his head. There was silence.

Luna carefully poked at a crack in the stone with her foot. "May I write to you, sir?"

He closed his eyes briefly. "I would like that."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Nor did they look at each other. They simply stood, two unequal figures, heads downcast, eyeing each other's feet.

Then, Luna (because it was always Luna) brought her hands up from her sides; they disappeared behind her neck, and she carefully shifted her hair, removing the chain from where it nestled beneath. She laid the inky pearl in her palm, staring at it. Then, she raised her hand, offering it to him.

"I want you to have this. Hold onto it for me."

He watched her face, saw the determination, the sincerity, the warmth. Without thinking, he raised his own arm, and clasped his long slender hand around her smaller one.

"Thank you."

Luna studied their joined hands carefully. Then, with all the grace of someone falling into a dream, she let the pearl fall into his hand, and moved forward until both her arms were around him in a tight hug.

Half stunned, half uncomprehending, Severus slowly brought his hands around her, one on her back, one atop her head. He felt her nose burrow itself into his chest, inhaling deeply; he bent his head, lightly stroking her hair.

And when she finally pulled away, she did not do so without first raising herself on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his cheek. And the only words he had for her were:

"Orange blossom. Earth and orange blossom."

 

//

 

He slept that night as he hadn't slept in years, the scent of her still lingering about him. He awoke the next morning just before dawn, still smelling her.

He rose from his bed, and stood in the dark of his little flat. He dressed quickly, quietly, and then gathered together his tools and a packed meal before apparating in the doorway.

When he landed, she was immediately replaced by the subtle, comforting smells of dew and long, green-gold grass. Which was not a terrible thing, for he knew that in the summer this is what she smelled like as well.

This had been, after all, her home.

The rook house had been nothing but a charred patch of earth and debris when he first found it. Now, a month into its reconstruction, its first story was beginning to take shape. He supposed it could be done faster if he thought to hire help. But he preferred it this way, working on his own. Magic made his task easier, and there was only a little manual labor required for constructing the house as it once had been. Besides all of which, this was for her, and he wouldn't trust anyone else to the task.

He looked at the house upon the hill, studying his progress. Another two months of weekends spent working on it, and it would be finished. Possibly just in time for summer.

She could still stay wtih the Weasley's if she wished. But here, there would also once again be a home, waiting for her.

Hitching his bag over his shoulder, he began to trudge up the hill, the efflorescent dawn on his heels.


End file.
